Impossibilities
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: A man wins the lottery, and a woman in a wheelchair trades places with her sister for the weekend. Follows 'A Gift of History'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Finally,_ Fantasy Island _has its own category! This is the first story I can post directly to it, and I think it's wonderful. Thanks are due to Terry L. Gardner for the welcome reviews. There are many more stories to come..._

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§ § § -- April 10, 1994

It was a Sunday, but since Maureen had gone into labor late the previous day, Roarke had let Leslie stop periodically at the hospital through the day and check on her friend's condition. Each time, she'd found Grady Harding pacing the waiting room, more agitated than the last time she'd dropped in, until early evening arrived and the fantasies for that weekend had been brought to a conclusion. This time Roarke came with her.

By now Grady was doing something akin to a power walk, making a circuit of the now-empty waiting room every ten seconds or so. His expression was thunderous, and it took him a couple more trips to notice that Roarke and Leslie were there. Roarke carefully schooled his expression, but Leslie wasn't quite as successful with her own amusement; so she let her father speak. "Good evening, Mr. Harding. Obviously you've still had no word."

"This is crazy," Grady exploded. "Why the hell didn't someone tell me this kid would take so damn long to get here?"

"First babies often take their time about arriving," Roarke remarked.

"Yeah…but twenty-seven hours?" Grady all but shouted.

A nurse got up from her seat behind the admissions desk and leaned across it to glare at him. "Please, Mr. Harding, your wife isn't the only patient in this hospital."

Grady glared right back. "Easy for you to say. You haven't been wondering if your wife's gonna die in childbirth." The nurse rolled her eyes and sat down, and he resumed his frenetic pacing. Roarke and Leslie looked at each other and grinned a bit ruefully, then took seats. Leslie poked through the stacks of magazines for something appealing, while Roarke settled into his chair and watched Grady make a few more circuits.

The entrance door opened and in came Myeko Sensei, wheeling a stroller that contained her two-year-old son Alexander and his baby sister Noelle, who had finally made her entrance into the world on February 4. Leslie forgot the magazines and twisted around in her seat. "Hi, come over here and watch Grady wear out the carpet." She missed the dirty look Grady shot her, but Roarke grinned when he saw it.

"Oh geez, is he still walking?" Myeko said with a laugh. She stopped the stroller beside the chair next to Leslie, lifted out a squirming Alexander and set him down. "Go bug Mr. Harding. Maybe it'll make him stop pacing." This time Grady's dirty look went to her, and she grinned back at him before addressing Roarke. "Hi, Mr. Roarke. From the way he's tromping around over there, there's no word on Maureen yet, right?"

"Correct, unfortunately," Roarke concurred. They watched Alexander fall in behind Grady and imitate his steps. The sight made everyone, even Grady, burst out laughing, and to the others' relief, Grady finally quit pacing and sat down to entertain Alexander.

"How's Noelle doing?" Leslie asked.

"Great," Myeko said, gently lifting the sleeping baby from the stroller. "Here, want to hold her a little while? She's such a good baby. A good thing too, because Alexander knocks me out every day. He's into everything."

Leslie accepted Noelle and cradled the baby, gazing down at the delicate little face. "She's just adorable," she said softly, gently rocking the infant back and forth. After a moment she looked up at Grady, unaware of Roarke watching her with a knowing gleam in his dark eyes. "So Grady…you never did mention whether you and Maureen had settled on any names yet."

Grady, bouncing a giggling Alexander on one knee, shrugged. "To be completely honest, we never thought too much about it. Maureen was sick as a dog all the way through the first trimester; then the baby started kicking her during the second trimester and hasn't stopped since. And once the third trimester began, the baby apparently found Maureen's bladder, because she practically moved into the bathroom about the time Noelle there was born. It's been one blasted thing after another, and I'm telling you, this kid's gonna be an only child. There's no point in making Maureen go through all that again."

"You might want to consult with Maureen on that," Leslie remarked, and they all laughed again. Grady accompanied his laughter with a grimace.

"Mommy, Zander wide bwonco," Alexander squealed gleefully. Grady was still so full of nervous energy that he was bucking the little boy like a rodeo bull. That brought on more laughter, and just then the doors at the end of the hallway near the waiting area, marked SURGERY, swung open and a stretcher rolled out. Grady put Alexander back on the floor and stood up instantly, craning his neck.

Dr. Phillips, who knew Roarke and Leslie well after having treated Tattoo for a car accident eleven years before, greeted them quickly and focused on Grady. "Yes, Mr. Harding, your wife's given birth, and she came through with flying colors."

"Are you serious? After almost 28 hours in labor? I thought that kid was gonna kill her," Grady said incredulously.

"Well, we did have to perform a C-section," Dr. Phillips said. "But Mrs. Harding's in fine shape, and she's resting now. She should be awake in another hour or so, and you can go in to see her. As for the baby, you have a fine, healthy daughter. Eight pounds, four ounces, and she has all her fingers and toes." He grinned and winked.

"Fantastic!" Grady exclaimed, and the others applauded, except for Leslie, who offered verbal congratulations, still rocking Noelle.

Just then Lauren McCormick ran in, breathless and excited. "Hey, am I too late? What's the good word?"

"You've got great timing," Leslie said, grinning. "Grady and Maureen have a new baby girl. Now you can go out and get all the baby clothes you refused to buy when Maureen had her shower last month."

"Terrific!" Lauren said enthusiastically, going to Grady and shaking his hand. "Well, congrats, new dad. So what's the kid's name going to be?"

Grady threw his hands in the air. "Search me. I hope Maureen gave it some thought, because I sure never did. Frankly, I'm just glad the kid finally decided to get born."

Lauren grinned. "Well, tell her if she needs help, we'll be happy to toss her ideas. In the meantime, I gotta get going. I was actually on my way to do grocery shopping and if I don't get going, I'm gonna miss the latest _Star Trek: Next Generation_ episode. Tell Maureen congrats. Hi, Myeko, Leslie, Mr. Roarke…see you all later!" She dashed out, evoking merriment in those she left behind.

Roarke arose, still chuckling. "I don't mean to seem as if we are running out," he said, "but there are some last-minute items that must be taken care of. Leslie, if you don't mind…? I'm afraid I will need your assistance."

"That's my job," said Leslie cheerfully, transferring Noelle back into Myeko's arms. "I'm glad we were here to hear the good news. See you later."

On the way back to the main house, Roarke cast her a glance and ventured, "Tell me, Leslie, do you still hear from your former sister-in-law?"

Leslie shook her head. "Not anymore. Her kids take up all her time, and the longer it is since Teppo died, the farther apart I drift from her." They reached a stop sign and Roarke waited longer than usual, studying her with some concern. She became aware of his gaze and turned to face him. "Why do you ask?"

Roarke cleared his throat. "I noticed something in your eyes when you were holding the baby," he said gently. "Do you still wish for a child of your own?"

Leslie shrugged. "It's been almost four years since Teppo died," she said, staring at the dashboard without actually seeing it. "I decided some time ago that I can't let my friends' babies get me down. It's not going to stop them from having kids, and I wouldn't want it to. As for me, well…it's an impossibility, and I refuse to dwell on it."

Roarke smiled in sympathy and patted her shoulder. "Perhaps only for now, my child. You can never tell what the future holds. If you want impossibilities, now…well, I suggest you wait till next weekend, and _then_ perhaps you will see impossibilities." Leslie stared at him in perplexity, but he simply winked at her and sent the car ahead.

§ § § -- April 16, 1994

"All right, Father," said Leslie at the plane dock the following Saturday morning. "What 'impossibilities' are we dealing with, after that tantalizing hint you dropped last weekend?"

Roarke chuckled. "Our first 'impossibility' is just now disembarking. The young lady in the wheelchair is Victoria Elliott, and the other is her sister Samantha. They come to us from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan; and their fantasy is to switch places for the weekend."

Leslie frowned, bewildered, and asked, "Switch places in what way?"

"Well, Samantha is a busy career woman—a high-ranking executive in an important Canadian banking firm. Her job demands nearly all of her time, and she tells me she has not had a vacation in more than three years. Victoria, on the other hand, has been unable to walk since her paralysis from the waist down, brought on by an automobile accident fourteen years ago. Her forced inactivity grates on her; she cannot work and has been drawing government disability pay since the age of twenty-one. It is the sisters' fantasy to exchange lives for this one weekend: Samantha will find herself confined to the wheelchair, and Victoria will experience her sister's hectic schedule."

"But that means Victoria will have to be able to walk!" Leslie pointed out, startled. "Is that what you mean by the 'impossibility'?"

Roarke simply smiled at her and, after a moment, gestured back to the plane dock. This time their guest was an excited-looking man in his mid-thirties or so, wearing a polo shirt and cream-colored Dockers, enthusiastically returning the kisses of the native girls who draped leis around his neck. "That is Mr. Kurt Jensen, from the small semi-rural town of Plainville, Massachusetts."

Leslie started and then relaxed with a giggle. "I thought for a second you were going to say Connecticut. The Plainville in Massachusetts is their sister city. So what's the impossibility factor in this fantasy?"

Roarke's smile took on a twinge of amusement. "Mr. Jensen wishes nothing more than to win a major lottery jackpot."

"Aha," Leslie said with understanding. "So of course, the odds are astronomical."

"But this is Fantasy Island," Roarke reminded her, eyes twinkling. "Therefore, my dear Leslie, when you speak of impossibilities, never forget where you are." He grew serious and shifted his attention to their guests, who were taking in their surroundings with awe, and said ominously, "In the case of these fantasies, however, the _possibilities_ are endless." Leaving that pronouncement hanging, he accepted his drink and raised it in the weekly toast. "My dear guests, I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- April 16, 1994

Exactly one hour later, there came a knock on the door, and Leslie went up and let in Kurt Jensen. "Oh…hi there," he said with interest, studying her.

"Hello, Mr. Jensen," Leslie replied with professional warmth, stepping aside. "Come in and make yourself comfortable. Is there something we can get you?"

"Uh…" Jensen came in and stopped short at the top of the foyer steps, staring around the study. "Wow." He zeroed in on Roarke, who had risen behind the desk, and remarked, "This place looks like _you_ won the lottery, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke laughed. "Thank you, Mr. Jensen, and I also thank you for your timely arrival. Please sit down, won't you? As Leslie offered, may we get you anything?"

"Oh, no thanks," Jensen said, taking one of the chairs. "I'd just like to get right on with business, if that's okay with you."

"Perfectly," said Roarke, sitting down again while Leslie came in and took the remaining chair. "It appears you are rather impatient to experience your fantasy."

"And how," Jensen said, nodding vigorously. "My parents are very well off; as a matter of fact, they gave themselves a cruise to Bermuda for their anniversary, and they left just a couple of days ago. Me, on the other hand, I live a pretty Spartan lifestyle. I live in an apartment in a small town, and I don't have the means to get out too much. I've been watching Mom and Dad live it up for years, and decided I wanted a taste of that sort of lifestyle. I opened up a special savings account for this trip seven years ago—so it's kind of hard to believe I finally made it. I figured, with Mom and Dad having a great time on their cruise, it was high time I got outta Plainville and did some living of my own."

"Does that mean you are dissatisfied with your life there?" asked Roarke.

Jensen sat up a little, looking surprised. "Oh no, no, Mr. Roarke, Plainville's a great place to live and to raise kids. I grew up there myself. It's just, well, your typical quiet small town. I figured I'd enjoy myself and live out one of my dreams at the same time."

"In that case, we hope you'll enjoy it," said Leslie.

"Thanks, Leslie." Jensen glanced a bit sheepishly between her and Roarke. "I don't exactly have a very original fantasy, do I? I guess you guys've probably granted dozens of lottery-winner fantasies."

Roarke chuckled. "However 'unoriginal' you may believe it to be, Mr. Jensen, it is still your fantasy, and as such, you have as much right as others with the same fantasy to see it granted. Now…there will be no need for an actual drawing, since the outcome is a foregone conclusion—" He smiled, and Jensen dipped his head and grinned, still looking a little abashed. "But, of course, everything else will proceed as usual following a lottery win. However, there is one exception. My daughter Leslie will handle the distribution of your winnings; whenever you want or need more, you need only come to her and she will draw up a check for the amount you wish. You may spend it any way you choose."

"Sounds great by me," Jensen said enthusiastically.

"Well enough," Roarke said, then leaned forward slightly, fixing his guest with a concerned gaze. "Just be very certain that you really want to see this through, Mr. Jensen. There are always hazards of one sort or another involved with possessing the kind of money you will have won."

Jensen flapped a hand at him. "Hazards, schmazards. Let's do it, Mr. Roarke."

One of Roarke's eyebrows climbed an inch or so; he glanced at Leslie, who chuckled and shrugged, remarking, "I guess we'd better give the man what he wants."

Roarke nodded. "Very well, Mr. Jensen," he said. "Leslie, if you would, please."

Jensen watched Leslie arise from her chair, retreat behind Roarke's desk and pull open a drawer, from which she removed that day's _Fantasy Island Chronicle_. She handed it across the desk to him, saying, "You might like this as a souvenir." While she reached inside the drawer again, he shook the paper open and found his own face grinning at him, somewhat maniacally he thought, from the front page, under the trumpeting headline **RECORD LOTTERY JACKPOT!** Alerted, he skimmed the article till he found the amount in question, then sat and gawked at it while Leslie, having straightened up with a checkbook in her hand, and Roarke watched, both wearing faint, amused smiles.

Finally Jensen's gaze met Roarke's and he breathed, "I won _two hundred million bucks?"_ At Roarke's nod: "What lottery did I play, anyway? Sure wasn't Mass Millions."

Roarke chuckled, that knowing glitter in his dark eyes, his smile very broad. "No indeed, Mr. Jensen…you won the Fantasy Island lottery, of course."

Leslie blinked and turned to him. "Father, we don't have…"

"On the contrary, my dear Leslie, we most certainly do," Roarke corrected her with a firm nod. She gave him a bewildered look for just a moment, then shrugged and accepted it. Roarke eyed her for one more moment, knowing she'd come back later and harangue him for the details; then he returned his attention to their guest. "You have a special account at the bank in town, Mr. Jensen," Roarke informed him. "Leslie will give you your first check for one hundred thousand dollars. You need only show your identification, and you may deposit the check without further ado."

"Deposit, heck," Jensen scoffed. "I'm cashing that sucker and spending every last dime of it. Hey, you said I won two hundred million. What's a hundred grand when you have all that loot? I'm gonna have some fun first, and then I'll think about other things."

"As you wish," said Roarke and gestured at Leslie, who opened the checkbook and wrote out the first check, tearing it out with a slight flourish and presenting it to Jensen.

"Happy spending, Mr. Jensen," she said and smiled.

"Thank _you!"_ Jensen blurted excitedly. "Thank you both…this is gonna be the greatest weekend I ever had. Thanks tons!" Waving the check in mid-air, he jumped out of his chair and scrambled out the door, clearly in a hurry to cash in.

"Subtle," commented Roarke dryly.

Leslie burst out laughing. "Yeah, like a tsunami!" Roarke joined in her merriment, shaking his head.

Once they'd subsided, he arose from his desk. "I think you had better put that checkbook in the locked drawer with the charter-plane passes," he advised her. "It's time for us to pay a call on the Elliott sisters." On their way out the door, he picked up a lidded box about a foot long and six inches wide, and handed it to Leslie while he settled behind the wheel of a station wagon and drove them both to the Lotus Bungalow.

Samantha Elliott answered Roarke's knock. "Oh, hi, Mr. Roarke, Leslie," she said. "Come on in. We've been waiting for you."

"I hope we haven't kept you too long," Roarke said questioningly.

"Oh, we weren't going anywhere," Samantha said and laughed. "We've just been unpacking our stuff and enjoying the breeze. It's amazing how you clearly have a tropical island here and yet there's no humidity."

"Yes, it feels wonderful," put in Victoria Elliott from her wheelchair in the middle of the main room. "All we're getting right now back in Saskatoon is cold rain."

"I'm happy to see you're so delighted," said Roarke with an appreciative smile.

"Please sit anywhere," Samantha invited. "Toria and I are both pretty eager to get going on our fantasy. We've been waiting for this for months. It was just a matter of me arranging my vacation time, you know."

"Indeed," said Roarke, taking a seat. Leslie settled in the nearest chair to him and made herself comfortable, watching quietly, still holding the box. "Very well, then, perhaps you might tell me what has driven you to make such a request."

Victoria eyed him sardonically. "Don't you think it's pretty obvious in my case, Mr. Roarke?" she asked, her voice laced with an edge of bitterness. "I haven't been able to walk since I was seventeen years old. My leg muscles have probably atrophied beyond all help by now, and I wonder if I'd still know how to walk if I were given back the ability all of a sudden. But this is the existence I have to live with. Shut up inside day in and day out, tending the garden, keeping house, watching soap operas…"

"Right now that sounds like paradise to me," Samantha broke in. "Toria has the idea that my life's glamorous and exciting, but frankly, I think I'm close to burnout. I have to be available to my subordinates twenty-four hours a day, six days a week. And I don't even have Sundays to be lazy. That's when I do the heavy work that Toria can't handle on her own. Not that it's all that much, but there are a few things that are just beyond her abilities. I don't think I can go on like this much longer. Toria's full of energy and mine's just about all used up. So we decided to see if it were possible to experience life in each other's shoes."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other significantly, as if sharing a secret joke, and Roarke smiled broadly at her before returning his attention to Toria and Samantha. "As a matter of fact, ladies, it is indeed possible," he said. "Temporarily, of course."

"Of course," muttered Toria, prompting the others to exchange glances. But before anyone could pose any questions, she looked up, took a deep breath, and met Roarke's gaze. "Okay then, Mr. Roarke, if it's possible, how do you propose to make it happen?"

"By the use of these," Roarke said, turning to Leslie with an outstretched hand. She lifted the lid off the box before passing it over to him, and he cradled it in both hands and tilted it so that the Elliotts could see inside.

"Shoes?" said Samantha blankly. The box contained a pair of nondescript-looking navy-blue flats, suitable for an evening out yet comfortable enough to wear during the day.

Roarke favored them with an enigmatic gaze, punctuated with a slight smile. "Ah, but these are no ordinary shoes, Ms. Elliott," he assured her. "They will enable your sister to walk again."

Toria sat up straight and tipped forward, trying to get a better look. "You can't be serious," she said skeptically. "All I have to do is wear those plain old shoes?"

Leslie grinned; Roarke glanced at her and mirrored her expression before directing it at Toria. "Yes, indeed, Ms. Elliott. As unexceptional as they may appear, these are very special shoes. First of all…" He turned to Samantha and extended the box in her direction. "If you would be so kind, Ms. Elliott, put on the shoes and walk once around the room. Be sure to make a trip up the steps toward the door and then back down again before you take a seat there on the sofa, as close as possible to your sister's wheelchair."

Samantha and Toria looked at each other dubiously, but they were both clearly intrigued. "Okay," Samantha agreed and tugged off her own high heels before poking her feet into the navy flats. "Wow, they fit perfectly," she said, eyes widening with appreciation. "And they're so comfortable! Gosh, Mr. Roarke, where can I get a pair like these?" They all laughed while she stood up and trod the perimeter of the room, taking a detour at the steps to the front door and going up and then down them per Roarke's instructions. She thumped onto the sofa directly beside Toria and removed the shoes with a show of reluctance that made Toria playfully swat her.

"Don't get greedy, sis," she teased. "Those are my shoes, you know." Samantha cast her a comical pout and handed the shoes to her.

"So what was that all about?" Samantha queried.

"The purpose of your little exercise was to 'charge up' the shoes, if you will," Roarke explained, his dark eyes sparkling. "In other words, Samantha's ability to walk has now been transferred into the shoes, and as soon as you, Victoria, put them on your own feet, that very ability will in turn transfer itself to you."

Toria stared at him in disbelief for a moment, then shrugged and put the shoes securely in her lap before sliding both hands under her left thigh and lifting it enough to grab her ankle and prop it atop her right leg. She slid the corresponding shoe onto her foot and then repeated the process with the other leg and shoe. The moment the second foot hit the floor, her face went slack with shock and she stared into space, looking stunned.

"Mr. Roarke—?" Samantha began. Leslie caught her eye and shook her head, smiling. They waited, everyone staring at Toria's feet—and sure enough, in about ten seconds they noticed movement within the shoes.

"Toria, you're wiggling your toes!" Samantha shouted.

Toria leaned over and stared in amazement at her own feet. "Oh my God, I really am!" she shrieked.

"Stand up," Leslie urged her then, almost as excited as the Elliotts.

Toria shot her one last apprehensive look, then braced herself for what she clearly expected would be a vain effort. As a result, when she popped easily onto her feet, she had put so much energy behind the attempt that she almost fell forward and had to take a step to catch herself. That motion in itself astounded her even more; she used the momentum to take one step after another, as natural as could be. Anyone just walking into the room would never have known she'd spent almost half her life in a wheelchair.

Samantha cheered, and Roarke and Leslie both watched with broad grins; Toria, looking euphoric, bounded across the room and hugged Roarke where he sat. "Thank you so much, Mr. Roarke!" she cried ecstatically. "I never thought I'd get a chance to walk again! I forgot how great it feels!"

"I don't doubt that for one moment, Miss Elliott," Roarke said, his features growing solemn. "As much as I hate to put a damper on your excitement, however, it is necessary for me to remind you that this condition will last only for these two days. By dinnertime tomorrow, you must both be back in this bungalow."

Toria paused to look at him, her eyes a little troubled. "Why can't it be permanent, Mr. Roarke?" she asked wistfully.

"Because the ability to walk has been borrowed from your sister for the weekend," Roarke explained gently, and used this as a segue to turn to Samantha. "And how do you feel, Miss Elliott?"

With attention drawn to her condition now, Samantha grew aware for the first time that she could feel nothing from the waist down, and said so, looking apprehensive. "Are you sure this is only temporary, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke nodded. "If you need someone to assist you in any way, I will be happy to provide a helper."

"She'll have me if she needs someone," Toria said, "but thank you anyway. You might as well get into the chair, Sammie. Tell me if you need any help."

Samantha got a determined look about her and shook her head. "No, I'm going to do this on my own. After that I plan to enjoy my rest for the weekend." They all watched as she reached for Victoria's abandoned wheelchair, positioned it where she could get to it more easily, and with much effort and a few muttered curses, finally got herself settled into it. She looked up at Toria with a rueful smile. "Toria, if I ever sounded callous about your condition before now, I take back everything I said and I apologize a hundred times over. You always make it look so easy, transferring yourself back and forth from this wheelchair, I never realized what's really involved."

Toria grinned. "It just takes practice, that's all. Mr. Roarke, Leslie, we can't thank you enough for doing this for us. What's there to do around here for fun?"

"Plenty," Leslie said. "The swimming pool, the beaches, the casino, horseback riding, and there's the weekly luau tonight too. You won't want to miss that."

"Then we'll be there," Toria said eagerly. "Thanks again."

"You're very welcome," Roarke replied, rising. "Enjoy yourselves, and may your joint fantasy be all you hope for. Leslie?"

The Elliott sisters watched their hosts leave, then looked at each other, both still feeling a little funny in their newly-swapped roles. Then Samantha grinned. "Well, why don't we change into swimsuits and hit the pool? I'm ready to soak up some sun after all that rain we've been having back home, and I'm sure you're dying for a swim."

"You read my mind," Toria said cheerfully. "Let me know if you need any help getting into your suit, Sammie."


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- April 16, 1994

"I don't know if we can," Myeko said to Camille inside the bank in Amberville, staring at the balance recorded in her checkbook. "I mean, I know we promised the boys and the quads, but…well, Toki's child-support check hasn't come yet."

Camille rolled her eyes. "He's probably too busy whooping it up in Honolulu," she said scornfully before softening and heaving a sigh. "Actually, I can see the problem. My bank balance doesn't look too healthy either. Maybe I ought to go ahead and get that part-time job, and never mind waiting till David starts kindergarten next year. He's gonna throw a fit when he finds out we can't afford the admission."

"We'll just have to put it off till later, I guess," Myeko said sadly. "I wanted to do it myself, you know? Just so I could forget all my problems."

"Excuse me, ladies…" Camille and Myeko both turned to see a man they didn't know hovering nearby. "I couldn't help overhearing. What's up?"

The two women looked at each other dubiously; then Myeko shrugged. "We promised our sons and my friend's brothers and sisters that we'd take them to the amusement park today," she explained. "But neither of us has enough money to pay all the admissions, even put together. Why do you ask?"

The stranger grinned in friendly fashion and whipped a pair of bills from his pocket. "Here, take the kids to the park," he said, "and have a great time. It's on me."

Camille and Myeko stared at him, at the proffered money, then at each other in disbelief. Finally Camille said incredulously, "You gotta be kidding, mister."

"Why would you do that?" Myeko wanted to know.

The man shrugged. "I came into some money," he said cheerfully, "and what good is it if I can't share it? Call it my good deed for the day." He grabbed Myeko's hand and stuffed the bills into it. "Have a great time, ladies." With that, he jogged toward the door.

"Hey, mister, wait," Camille blurted.

"Hold it, we can't—" Myeko began, but their voices trailed off as the stranger ignored their calls and vanished out the door. Camille gaped after him, completely bewildered, while Myeko finally thought to examine the money in her hand. Her loud gasp made Camille's head snap around in alarm.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"That guy just gave me two hundred dollars!" Myeko croaked. "That'll cover not just admission, but meals and even those stupid target-shooting games that Jeremy's so crazy about. Heck, we could even get souvenirs."

"Let me see," Camille said, and Myeko displayed the two $100 bills at her. Camille leaned forward and squinted at them, then scowled. "I bet they're counterfeit."

"Well, we're in a bank, aren't we?" Myeko pointed out. "Let's check with one of the tellers." She headed for an open window.

Five minutes later they emerged from the bank, still dazed with amazement and a little puzzlement. "I don't get it," Myeko said, "but you know what? That guy insisted we enjoy ourselves, so I say let's go for it."

Camille shrugged and grinned in resignation. "Might as well," she said. "Let's get the quads and the runts, and we'll catch the next bus to the amusement park."

Across the town square, Kurt Jensen was still congratulating himself for saving the day for some kids. Thinking about the house and new car he planned to buy, he wandered into a gift shop that sold touristy souvenirs of Fantasy Island, and idly scanned the water globes, T-shirts, pennants, paperweights, shot glasses, coffee mugs, keychains and other odds and ends displayed around the shop. At which point he heard whispers and giggles, and turned to find three pretty Polynesian girls standing in a knot a few feet away, their attention on him. When they saw they'd drawn his notice, they all lit up and approached.

"You're the guy who won the lottery, aren't you?" one asked brightly. "We saw your picture in today's paper. My goodness, all that money."

"Your wife and family must be thrilled," ventured a second girl.

"Oh…I'm not married," Jensen said uncomfortably, and cleared his throat when the three girls exchanged wide-eyed, delighted glances.

"Maybe you'd like a little company for the luau tonight?" the third girl offered with a hopeful smile. Her companions nodded eagerly.

Jensen backed a few steps away. "Well, actually, I didn't know about that…"

"Oh, we have one every week, and everyone goes," number two said. "You really shouldn't miss it. And we'd be happy to be your escorts."

"All three of you?" Jensen blurted. "At the same time?"

"Why not?" inquired number one with a smirk.

Jensen considered this, eyed the girls—all of whom were quite attractive and exotic-looking—and to his own surprise, found he liked the idea more and more the longer he thought about it. "Yeah," he said, "why not?"

"Ladies…" broke in a new voice, and all of them turned to see Roarke nearby, his disapproving gaze on the three native girls. "I believe you have tasks to occupy you elsewhere, do you not?"

The girls all blushed in embarrassment and hung their heads. "We just thought your guest might like a little company for the luau," said number one.

"We didn't mean any harm, Mr. Roarke," number three exclaimed.

Roarke frowned sternly. "That's as may be. At the moment I suggest you get on with the jobs you have been assigned."

"Yes, sir," the girls chorused and scuttled out of the shop, nearly creating a bottleneck at the door in their haste to get out. Jensen sighed and shrugged, turning back to Roarke.

"I suppose that was one of those hazards you warned me about earlier," he said.

Roarke chuckled. "If those are the only 'hazards' you encounter this weekend, Mr. Jensen," he observed, "then you should count yourself very lucky indeed. Will you excuse me?" Jensen watched him depart the shop, shook his head and put the matter out of his mind, perusing the T-shirts again.

The bell over the door tinkled and this time three little girls from the fishing village made their way inside, stopping in front of a display case filled with dolls in Polynesian garb. The owner barreled out from behind the counter and chased them out, grumbling when they were gone and returning to his former pursuit. Jensen watched the whole altercation, then gathered the T-shirts and shorts he had chosen and went to pay for them. "Those kids troublemakers or something?" he asked.

The shopkeeper grimaced. "They don't have enough to keep them busy," he said, ringing up the sale. "Every weekend they come in here and stare at those dolls. That'll be twelve-fifty." Jensen dug into a pocket and extracted a fifty-dollar bill, at which the owner peered in surprise. "You got anything smaller? I can't change that."

Jensen bit his lip and extracted his wallet, peering inside and poking at considerable length through the large collection of bills therein. "Uh…I don't have anything smaller." He turned around and regarded the display case, then asked, "How much are those dolls?"

The shopkeeper snorted. "Beyond the means of those little brats," he grumbled. "They're twenty-five bucks apiece."

"Hold on a minute," said Jensen and, leaving his items on the counter, poked his head out the entrance. The three little girls were pressed against the window, hands cupped around their faces, peering inside. "Hi, kids."

They yanked back and stared at him; the oldest ventured, "Hi, mister."

Jensen grinned. "I hear you girls like those dolls that man has in there."

The smallest girl beamed and nodded. "They're pretty," she lisped. "They look like the pretty ladieth Mithter Roarke gotth at the luau."

"We'll never have enough money to buy them," said the middle girl gloomily, "but at least we can come inside and look at them."

"Tell you what," Jensen said. "Now you can look at them anytime you like. Come on inside and I'll buy a doll for each one of you. Pick out your favorite."

"Wow, really?" the middle girl exclaimed. Her face and that of the youngest lit like stars, but the oldest looked torn. It was clear she desperately wanted a doll of her own, but was old enough to be leery of strangers offering gifts.

"Wait, you two," she said. "You know Mommy says we should never take candy from strangers. Especially strange men."

"But it'th not candy, it'th dollth," protested the youngest girl. "Pleathe, Lani!"

"It doesn't matter," Lani said severely. "He's still a stranger."

"Girls, I'm one of Mr. Roarke's guests," Jensen said. "If you're worried, just ask Mr. Roarke, and he'll tell you. Is that good enough?"

"Mr. Roarke knows who you are?" Lani asked skeptically.

Jensen nodded. "And you know Mr. Roarke, right? He's not a stranger. So if you know Mr. Roarke, and Mr. Roarke knows me, then that makes me less of a stranger."

Lani thought this over, decided his convoluted logic appealed to her, and gave in with an eager smile. "I guess you're right, mister. Okay, come on, let's go see which dolls we want." Jensen ushered them in ahead of him and wound up waiting another twenty minutes while the girls deliberated over their choices. The shopkeeper looked extremely doubtful, but he said nothing as he rang up the new purchases and quoted the total. Jensen handed over the requested amount with a broad smile.

"Okay, girls, the dolls are all yours. Have fun with them!" he said jovially.

"Thanks, mister!" the girls chorused and ran out of the store. The shopkeeper watched them go, shaking his head.

"You know, pal, you'll never get those three off your back now," he said. "Every time you see them, they'll be all over you, asking for toys or candy or who-knows-what."

Jensen shrugged. "I'll probably never see them again," he said dismissively. "I just wanted to make those kids happy. Besides, now that they have the dolls they want, it might stop them coming in here and driving you nuts."

The shopkeeper rolled his eyes. "We'll see about that. But it's your call, bud, so I hope you enjoy your stay."

Jensen grinned and accepted the bag, sauntering out of the store and feeling very good about himself. Whistling, he wandered across the square, stopping in the green beside the little wishing well that stood there and removing an entire handful of change from his pocket. Just for fun, he opened his hand over the well and watched a shower of coins tumble into the water with a collection of little splashes.

"Hate to sound like a cliché," remarked a weary voice from nearby, "but it fits, so…brother, can you spare a dime?"

Jensen twisted around till he saw the owner of the voice: a man somewhere close to his own age, looking as if he hadn't had a shower or a decent meal in days at least. "Yeah, I can spare a dime. I can spare a few of 'em," Jensen remarked. "Where'd you come from?"

"Long story," the fellow said, shrugging. "I had to work my way here on a barge, and the captain wasn't the most generous sort on earth, if you know what I mean. I've got about fifteen cents to my name after I bought a pass onto this island from one of my former shipmates. But heck if I know what I'm gonna do now."

"What happened before that?" Jensen asked in fascination, then held up a hand. "Wait. Looks to me like you could use a good hot shower and maybe something to eat. You wanna come on back to my bungalow?"

The man's eyes widened. "You must be one of Roarke's weekend guests, if you're staying in one of those," he said, impressed. He grinned and stuck out his hand. "The name's Jeff McKay, once upon a time from White Bird, Idaho, now a drifter from any old where."

Jensen grinned. "Kurt Jensen, from Plainville, Massachusetts."

They shook hands and started out of town, and McKay said, "Plainville, Massachusetts, you said? Never heard of it."

"Well, I never heard of White Bird, Idaho, so I guess we're even," Jensen said with good humor, and they both laughed. "Plainville's a small town—I was born and raised there. Still live there actually. You grow up in White Bird?"

"Yeah, I'm another small-town kid," McKay said. "Matter of fact, I used to be a real upstanding citizen. I was even on the police force for awhile…except things happened. Lost my job, lost my wife…" He cleared his throat and shook his head hard, as if to dispel whatever was bothering him. "You know, I really appreciate this. Like I said, I was working my way along on the barge. I signed on in Hilo and discovered in less than a day what a sadistic slave driver the captain was. He was planning to go to Australia, and I thought that sounded like a great place to make a fresh start. But we'd been at sea half a day and I realized I was never gonna last long enough to get there. The man doesn't let his crew rest and barely lets them eat. It's a wonder he keeps anyone on board. One of the other sailors happened to have an ancient pass to this island—I guess he was a native, and something drove him away from home, but he had the pass anyway. He said it was in case he ever decided to go back. I guess he wasn't too keen on that idea in the end, since I managed to talk him into selling the pass to me. It cleaned me out, but at least I made it here, and maybe my luck'll turn around. Even if Roarke doesn't let me stay, he might give me a temporary job, long enough to earn some money to get on to Australia like I thought I would."

"Gotcha," Jensen said, nodding thoughtfully. "Well, I guess we could always check in at the main house later. I'm actually living out a fantasy this weekend, so as I mentioned, I've got one of the bungalows. There's loads of hot water and soap, so take all the time you want. You got a change of clothes?"

McKay grimaced. "Everything I own, I'm wearing." He looked down and surveyed his tattered, filthy pants and shirt; his sneakers looked as if he'd had them since about 1970. "Geez, this is gonna make me look like the worst sort of sponger, but…"

"No problem," Jensen said and displayed his bag at him. "I just bought two pairs of shorts and three souvenir T-shirts. You can borrow those, and we'll trot out and shop for some more clothes for you after. I got a pair of flip-flops you can use too."

"You, man, are a lifesaver," said McKay gratefully. "And one way or the other, I'm gonna pay you back."

"Don't bother," Jensen said, flapping a hand. "I came into some money, and it doesn't seem right to keep it all to myself. Consider it a gift to get you going again, and forget about paying me back. Come on, let's get back to my bungalow."


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- April 16, 1994

"This is definitely paradise," said Victoria Elliott, pushing her sister along in the wheelchair she herself had so recently occupied. "Just look at all these flowers, and the color of the sky…and take a breath! Even the air smells exotic."

Samantha giggled. "Yeah, I agree with you there. Imagine what it must be like to live here and take this place for granted all the time." She twisted halfway around in the chair to look up at her younger sister. "It's kind of a long way to the pool. How're those muscles holding up?"

"They feel wonderful," Toria said, beaming. "It's such a miracle, Sammie. I'm going to swim laps till I practically drown, and then I'll go and take a stroll along the beach…"

"Don't overdo it!" Samantha said through a laugh. "Even working muscles run out of energy and need rest. And brother, let me tell you, I'm going to enjoy the heck out of mine. I don't even mind being confined to the wheelchair. If it means I don't have to move for the next couple days, then I'm happy enough to give up walking for the weekend."

They chattered happily on till they reached the pool, which typically was quite crowded. The sisters managed to find an empty table, and Toria settled Samantha there and dropped a beach bag on the table. "Want me to get you anything?"

Samantha peered across the cement perimeter at the bar and grinned. "Well, for starters, how about a drinks menu, if they have one? That way I can try something new and tropical and totally unheard-of." Toria laughed and went to check into it.

Halfway to the bar, she heard a loud gasp and a cry of, "Toria Elliott?" She stopped in surprise and turned to see a face she hadn't encountered since before her car accident.

"Gabi Wickham?" Toria burst out, stunned. "Is that really you?"

"Yes, it _is_ me!" bubbled the petite redhead who leaped forward and hugged Toria hard. Astonished, Toria hugged her back; she and Gabrielle Wickham had been the best of friends from their first day of school at age six till the day the Wickhams had moved out-of-province when the girls were fifteen. They had fallen out of touch before a full year had passed, and had not seen or heard from each other since then. "Gosh, I never expected to see you here on Fantasy Island! What're you doing here?"

"Oh, Sammie and I are on vacation," Toria said, still quite stunned. "How about you, what're _you_ doing here?"

"I'm on my honeymoon," Gabi said brightly. "Dean and I are having the best time—it makes such a great change from that frozen weather in New Brunswick. I met Dean in my last year of school, and we've been together ever since. My last name's Josephson now. Oh my gosh, we really should sit down and catch up. This is fabulous."

"Well, I was just headed for the bar to get a menu of drinks," Toria said limply, trying to figure out what she was going to tell Gabi about her accident and the fact that she was normally wheelchair-bound. Of all the times and places to meet her long-lost best friend!

"I'll come too," Gabi volunteered eagerly and fell in beside Toria. "You know, the timing is just amazing. I heard all about the reunion this weekend from this morning's paper, and you know, it'd be great to go and see all the old gang again." She missed Toria's wince. "Are they all still there?"

"Oh…most of them," Toria mumbled, "but I don't keep in touch." She squeezed between two occupied barstools and managed to catch the attention of the overworked bartender. "Um…do you happen to have a drinks menu?"

"Sure, miss, here you go." The man handed her a sheet of paper, and she thanked him and turned to make her way back to hers and Samantha's table. Gabi stuck by her side, chattering nonstop. Toria was still trying to come to terms with the fact that her high-school reunion was this weekend, and here on the island too. Was it just coincidence, or was it calculated? _If I don't watch out, this could ruin my fantasy,_ she thought. She wondered how she'd missed hearing about it.

Samantha recognized Gabi right away, and Gabi stared in amazement as she sat in one of the other chairs. "Gosh, Sam, how did…I mean, is it okay if I ask?"

Samantha glanced at Toria and said, "Well, it hasn't been all that long…"

"It's a long story, Gabi," Toria put in, hoping to change the subject. "Tell me what you know about this reunion. I had no idea they were here, especially this weekend."

"What reunion?" Samantha asked, taking the menu from Toria.

"My high-school reunion," Toria said shortly, sitting down. "Apparently they decided to have it here on Fantasy Island…and on the same weekend we came here. Isn't that just too convenient?" Samantha and Gabi looked at each other, and Toria realized her bitterness had been audible. Samantha cleared her throat and intently studied the menu.

Gabi peered narrowly at Toria across the table. "I know it's been a long time, Toria, but we used to tell each other everything. We never had any secrets. Is there something going on that I ought to know about?"

Samantha looked up from her menu in time to see Toria start to reply and catch herself. After a moment she said, "Something happened in senior year, and I'd really rather not talk about it. It's the reason I don't stay in touch with the gang."

Gabi watched Toria, looking hurt, but said nothing for a long moment. Finally she nodded. "Okay, Toria, it's your prerogative." But her voice was cool, and her demeanor was noticeably more distant. "Anyway, I understand the reunion's supposed to be at tonight's luau. I guess you're not planning to go."

"Oh, we're going," Samantha said, shooting Toria a sharp, deliberate look. "There's no way I'm missing that luau, and believe me, Toria Elliott, you're taking me there."

‡ ‡ ‡

"Okay," said Leslie, leaning over the desk, "so yesterday was Dr. Wayne's last day, and Tabitha called me this morning to let me know she's meeting Fernando's flight this afternoon. Then, in regard to the hotel, Jimmy tells me the new permanent chef starts tonight. He's straight from Tokyo and I understand he's the best available; his name's Kazuo Miyamoto. And Jimmy told me to reassure you especially that he never, _ever_, prepares fugu."

Roarke raised an eyebrow, half amused. "I'm happy to hear it. What else?"

"Mariki says they're going to need more food for the luau. There's a class reunion for Wildwood High School out of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, and they're holding the actual reunion at the luau, so there's not enough food to go around. Kiko and Lono said they'll expand the dancing area a little bit if they can. Other than that, everything's going as well as we can expect it to. And the new sliding mats have arrived for the water slide at the amusement park, so Mateo's making the delivery from the dock."

"Excellent," said Roarke, and at that moment the door opened and Maureen Harding entered, cradling a tiny baby in her arms. "Good afternoon, Maureen!"

"Hi, Maureen, what brings you here? Did you name that poor baby yet?" Leslie asked playfully, straightening up.

Maureen rolled her eyes. "Hi, Mr. Roarke and Leslie. Actually, that's mostly why I'm here. Grady and I can't seem to agree on anything. We were pretty sure we'd get a boy, and I had a couple of names picked out. So when we got a girl, we were totally unprepared. Do you happen to have a name book, Leslie?"

Leslie shook her head. "Sorry, I don't. Did you check the library?"

"Grady's looking into it," Maureen said. "The folks at the hospital are getting a little impatient with us because of the birth certificate and other paperwork. I think we're going to need that help Lauren mentioned last weekend. Grady told me she said she and the rest of you would be happy to help out."

"Well, we will," Leslie said, nodding. "Just yell when you're ready to do some brainstorming. Why don't you bring the baby to the luau tonight, too. Might as well initiate her early on." She grinned.

"As long as you have a few minutes to spare," Maureen said questioningly, glancing at Roarke. "I don't want to get you fired."

Leslie followed her gaze and grinned at her adoptive father. "If things go as usual, I don't guess it'll be much of a problem, will it, Father?"

"I see no reason why it should be," Roarke said. "As a matter of fact, everything is running very smoothly today. Maureen, I understand your friend Tabitha is meeting her young doctor friend, Fernando Ordoñez, on the afternoon plane; you and Leslie might like to accompany her there and help her welcome him to the island."

"Oh, that sounds like fun," Maureen agreed. "Besides, Tabitha hasn't seen the baby yet. Can't blame her—she's been so excited all month about Fernando finally coming and taking over Dr. Wayne's practice."

"So I hear," said Roarke, smiling. "Very well, Leslie, since all is well in hand at the moment, why don't you take some time for lunch before you deal with Mariki in regard to the food supply for the luau. I'll make a few calls in the meantime."

"Call my mother," Maureen put in. "She'll be thrilled—she has nothing booked for this weekend, and she's at loose ends. Dad told her to quit hovering over me and the baby, so she's going stir-crazy at home. Mom'll provide all the food you need and then some."

"Thank you, Maureen, for a very welcome suggestion," Roarke said with appreciation and picked up the phone. "I'll see you in about an hour, Leslie."

"Okay, I'll be back then," she said and left the house with Maureen. The two young women had just descended the porch steps when a jeep careened around the bend in the lane and ground to a halt near the fountain, raising a cloud of dust that made Maureen frantically shield her tiny daughter and set off coughing fits in both her and Leslie.

Kurt Jensen jumped out of the vehicle and pelted across the lane to meet Leslie, stopping when he realized what had happened. "Oh, sorry," he said. "I, uh…just wanted to ask you for another check, if you don't mind."

Leslie waved ineffectually at the dusty air and squinted at him in surprise. "I gave you your first check less than two hours ago," she pointed out.

"Yeah, well…I spent it already," Jensen said sheepishly. "I need more."

She shrugged, while Maureen watched with great interest, and acquiesced. "Okay. Maureen, I'll be right back." She preceded Jensen back into the house, where Roarke was just concluding his phone call. He watched curiously while Leslie unlocked the desk drawer and extracted the checkbook.

"Another check so quickly, Mr. Jensen?" Roarke asked.

Jensen shrugged, his face going ruddy. "Ran out of money."

"He did win two hundred million, after all," Leslie observed, making out a check.

"Indeed," Roarke said, regarding Jensen with a touch of irony. "And, as I recall, you had every intention of spending your entire first check."

"Which I did," Jensen agreed with a grin, "but not necessarily the way I expected. I've been sharing some of the wealth, Mr. Roarke. Bought some dolls for some little girls, gave some ladies money to take their kids to the amusement park, helped out a guy who's been down on his luck…"

"And fended off three amorous young ladies," Roarke concluded, letting the irony shine through in his voice.

"Aw, they didn't mean any harm," Jensen said, chuckling. He accepted the check Leslie held out to him. "Thanks again. Well, anyway, gotta get back to my bungalow. Jeff's there getting cleaned up, and once he's ready we're getting him some new clothes so he can apply for some jobs."

"I see," said Roarke slowly, studying Jensen with an unreadable expression.

"Who's Jeff?" Leslie asked.

"The guy who's down on his luck," said Jensen. "Just helping him out, y'know. Well, like I said, thanks. See you later on." He bolted out of the house.

Roarke and Leslie stared after him for a very long thirty seconds, both awash in doubt and concern. Finally Leslie said, borrowing Roarke's irony, "Well, as Mr. Jensen said this morning, 'hazards, schmazards'. I see he wasn't kidding."

"No, indeed," Roarke murmured, frowning. "Which all but guarantees that he will find himself in danger before his fantasy is over."

"How can anybody have that trusting a nature?" Leslie wondered.

Roarke smiled ever so faintly. "He's a generous man, Leslie," he said, "if decidedly naïve. It appears he's made little, if any, secret that he has quite a lot of money now. Sooner or later, someone with malicious intent will set sights on him, and I am afraid he is very ill-prepared for such an eventuality."


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- April 16, 1994

Toria was taking her swim and Gabi had left for the room she shared with her new husband at Julie's B Samantha sat at the table, sipping a margarita and people-watching. She didn't mind the solitude; it was refreshing after all the rushing she had to do in her work and all the people she had to deal with on a constant, ongoing basis.

"Excuse me…are you sitting with anyone?" asked a male voice, and she pulled her attention away from her sister's long, fluid strokes in the pool to see a man somewhere in his mid-to-late thirties watching her hopefully. He, like her, was in a wheelchair; he was fair-haired and hazel-eyed, and already sported a sunburn.

"No," said Samantha, "just my sister, and she's in the pool right now. You know, you really need to get out of the sun. That looks like it'll turn into a heck of a burn."

He grinned sheepishly. "That was part of the reason I asked if I could sit here. That umbrella's throwing shade in the perfect spot." They both laughed, and he extended his hand to her. "My name's Darryl Kellett, from Chicago."

"Samantha Elliott, from Saskatoon," she told him, shaking his hand. "Let's see if we can get this chair moved so you're out of the sun. Boy, you'll be hurting later on. Didn't you bring any sunscreen with you?"

"Yeah, well, I forgot to put it on," Darryl Kellett admitted with a shrug, wheeling behind Samantha and helping her drag the chair aside. "But what the hey…when I get home, everybody can envy me for having been to a place where I could get sunburned to begin with." He grinned when Samantha laughed again and wheeled himself into position in the shade of the umbrella. "Ah, that feels a lot better. So you're from Saskatchewan, huh? I've got a cousin in Meadow Lake—manage to get up and visit him a couple times a year or so. It's been a little harder since I got stuck in this thing, though."

"How…" began Samantha, hesitating.

Darryl shrugged again. "No big deal. I have muscular dystrophy. I've known that since I was a little kid, and I also knew I needed to take advantage of my healthy time to the best of my ability. So I went into stock brokering, made some canny investments, and was able to retire before I was permanently confined to this thing. That was almost three years ago. What about you?"

"Oh…" Samantha bit her lip and glanced toward the pool, where Toria was currently doing the backstroke. What on earth was she going to tell this guy?

But Darryl looked sympathetic. "Must be recent," he guessed. "Well, we don't have to talk about it. So you're here with your sister?"

"That's her in the pool, carrying on like an Olympic swimmer," Samantha said with a grin, relieved that Darryl had let her off the hook, at least for the moment. "Her name's Victoria, but we just call her Toria for short. She's a couple of years younger than I am. What brings you to Fantasy Island?"

"Vacation. Chicago's cold and wet right now and I needed a change." Darryl rested an elbow on the table and propped his chin on his fist, studying her with appreciation. "I didn't expect to meet someone like you. I consider it a bonus."

Samantha felt her face turn red and smiled foolishly at the tabletop. "Well, thanks."

"Anytime." He leaned forward and waited till she looked up at him. "I hope you're not relying on your sister to take you to the luau tonight."

She cleared her throat. "Well, I was, but I don't think she'd mind if I changed the plan," she said shyly.

Darryl grinned and sat back, as if to say, _Mission accomplished!_ "Great! I'll come by for you about six, how's that? Where're you staying?"

"In the Hibiscus Bungalow," she told him.

"Aha…you're guests of Mr. Roarke, then," he said, his eyebrows waggling. "Us mere vacationers have to settle for the hotel or the B&B. Actually, I tried to get into the B&B, but it's booked solid for the next two years. I wasn't willing to wait that long to take a trip here." He grinned again. "So then, it's a date for this evening. And meantime, you and I can get to know each other a little better."

Samantha nodded, slightly wary. She already really liked this guy; he seemed to be very friendly and personable, and she was more than happy to spend her afternoon with him. But how close should she let him get, and should she tell him about hers and Toria's mutual fantasy? And what would happen if she did? The questions rolled around in her head, and in an effort to chase them away, she lifted her drink and took a sip before suggesting, "In that case, why don't you start. So far I know you're Darryl Kellett from Chicago and you're a retired stockbroker. How about some vital stats? Birthplace, age, family, stuff like that?"

"Your wish is my command," he said amiably and proceeded to tell her. She eagerly concentrated on his voice, trying to shut out her nagging conscience.

‡ ‡ ‡

Kurt Jensen returned to his bungalow with another large walletful of cash, finding himself shadowed by the same three native women he'd run across in the gift shop that morning. Once he got safely inside the bungalow, though, he stepped on something and looked down to find a number of colorful brochures on the floor. He picked them up and sifted through them; they were all gaudy investment advertisements. "Golden opportunity!" trumpeted one. "Strike it rich!" shouted another. A third blared, "Retire by age forty!" _I already could,_ Jensen realized, _right this minute actually. Well, that is, if this wasn't a fantasy. Boy, it's funny how word gets around when you've got money…_

Jeff McKay came out of the bedroom, rubbing a towel over his face. He was dressed in a set of the new shorts and T-shirts that Jensen had bought earlier and had just shaved, judging from the dots of white cream he was toweling off his jaw. "Hiya, Kurt. What's that stuff? Anything interesting?"

"Nah, just some investment ads. So, you wanna hit a tailor in town before we go job-hunting for you?" Jensen asked, tossing the brochures onto a glass-topped end table.

"Think we better," McKay agreed, glancing at the brochures. "I don't expect anyone'll hire me if I come in wearing this getup. Thanks again for all this, man. I can't tell you what it means to me, especially since I'm a total stranger to you."

"Heck, it'd be pretty selfish of me not to share some of the wealth," Jensen said. "So let's get going, huh?"

They strode along the path in the direction of Amberville, discussing job possibilities; after a few minutes McKay's focus seemed to shift and he canted his head, turning it slightly. Jensen peered at him and asked, "Something wrong?"

"You hear something?" McKay queried, and they both stopped right there and turned around. The three native girls were some twenty yards behind them, but clearly following along. McKay grinned wryly at Jensen. "Looks like you've got some admirers."

Jensen rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Ladies," he said, raising his voice, "I already said I'd go to the luau with you this evening. What'samatter, afraid I'll break our date?"

They all giggled and sauntered up to join the men; they assessed McKay, smiled a greeting at him and began to fawn over Jensen. McKay watched for a moment, but it soon became clear that they were there for the duration. He sighed and removed the hands of the nearest girl from Jensen's chest. "Okay, ladies, I think you better run along. We've got some business to conduct, and I'm sure you have things to do too."

A station wagon appeared around a bend in the road and drew to a halt beside them; Leslie sat in the driver's seat, having dropped off Maureen at the hotel to eat with Grady. "Is there a problem?" she asked.

"Groupies," Jensen kidded, grinning.

Leslie perused the native girls and shook her head reproachfully. "Anuhea, Malu and Napua…just what are you doing?" Then she remembered something and scowled. "Don't tell me…you're the three Father was talking about when he mentioned fending off 'amorous young ladies' to Mr. Jensen earlier."

They all turned red, but Malu—the boldest—spoke up. "Actually, Miss Leslie, Mr. Jensen agreed to come to the luau with us this evening."

Leslie stared at her. "All _three_ of you?"

"Yes," Malu said, smirking.

"He was being very generous," Napua said shyly.

"I'll say he was," Leslie commented dryly. "Look, the three of you are needed over at the luau area anyway. It's going to be bigger than usual this weekend, and they need all the help they can get setting it up. Are you already heading in that direction, or would you like me to give you a lift over there?"

"We were just on our way," Anuhea assured her. "Weren't we?" She nudged Malu as she said this; Napua nodded in quick agreement. Malu heaved a sigh, but strolled along after her two hurrying companions, casting a meaningful look at Jensen over her shoulder and winking in a very exaggerated way.

"Give me strength," grumbled Leslie to herself before smiling ruefully at their guest. "I hope you'll accept our apologies."

"Oh, no problem," said Jensen with a grin. "I really did tell them I was going with them to the luau—yes, all three of 'em."

Leslie eyed him, unsure whether she should be impressed or disgusted. Finally she went with an impulse and inquired, "Did it occur to you that they're interested in you only because of your lottery win?"

Jensen glanced after Malu. "Pretty native girls must be a dime a dozen around here," he said. "I wasn't looking to fall in love anyway—I'm just here for my fantasy and to have a good time. If the money attracts the women, then bring 'em on. Besides, I never get that kind of attention at home." He smirked.

Leslie shrugged and gave up. "Well, it's your fantasy, Mr. Jensen. Have a good afternoon, and we'll see you at the luau." She drove off, waiting till she could see Jensen and his companion in her rearview mirror before amending sarcastically, "You and your harem."

‡ ‡ ‡

The weekly Saturday-night luau was far more heavily populated than usual, mainly due to the Wildwood High School reunion. Roarke and Leslie did their usual circulating, greeting guests left and right, making sure all was well and fantasizers and vacationers alike were happy. It took them nearly an hour to accomplish this; then they paused near the buffet table, which was twice as large as usual and laden with the combined efforts of Mariki, Romana Tomai and her catering service, and their new chef, Kazuo Miyamoto. All three were fielding scores of lavish compliments on the food, and they were beaming.

"Tasty as heck," announced Kurt Jensen from behind them, and they turned to see him munching on a plateful of tempura that Chef Miyamoto had prepared just that afternoon, immediately upon arrival. Anuhea, Malu and Napua were behind him, hovering faithfully, reminding Leslie of barnacles and making Roarke eye them askance.

"Thank you, sir," Chef Miyamoto acknowledged Jensen's praise. "I have plenty more waiting, so help yourself." He turned to Roarke and Leslie. "You too, sir and Miss Leslie."

"Why not?" Roarke decided and picked up a plate, using tongs to deposit four or five morsels on it. He then tried one and nodded in appreciation. "Superb! Mr. Omamara did a fine job choosing our new chef. You are very much to be commended."

Leslie filched a bit off Roarke's plate, then grinned. "Mmm. Delicious. Is there anything else you need, as long as we're here?"

"Not a thing, Miss Leslie," the chef said, smiling at her.

"Very good," said Roarke. "Incidentally, Chef, I would like to see you tomorrow morning for a menu discussion. Are you available at ten o'clock?"

"The breakfast rush should be over by then. That'll be fine, Mr. Roarke," the chef said. Roarke nodded in response and turned to Kurt Jensen. "So, Mr. Jensen, it appears you are enjoying your fantasy immensely."

"Uh-huh." He seemed to ignore his hangers-on, although Roarke eyed them narrowly. Napua and Anuhea looked slightly nervous.

"Ladies?" Roarke said, the one word carrying myriad undertones.

The native girls caught them all, too. "It's our evening off, Mr. Roarke," Malu told him earnestly. "Mr. Jensen didn't mind if we came with him to the luau."

"All three of you?" asked Roarke incredulously. "At once?"

"He's a very nice man," ventured Napua, reddening.

Roarke merely raised an eyebrow and addressed Jensen. "I sincerely hope these ladies are not a bother to you," he said questioningly.

Jensen shook his head, looking preoccupied. "Nah, they're just nice company."

"Well," Leslie said, her eyes trained somewhere in the near distance, "I'd say you're about to get some more of that nice company."

Everyone followed her gaze to where three very tall, very muscular young Polynesian men were advancing grimly in their direction. Napua squeaked and fled toward one of them; Anuhea groaned, and Malu simply rolled her eyes. Jensen blinked; the faraway expression vanished from his features, and he thrust his plate at a startled Roarke. "I think it's time for me to do some mixing and make some new friends," he blurted and dodged away into the crowd before anyone could react.

Almost all the way across the clearing, Toria Elliott was having the time of her life dancing to the music; at the moment the band was playing contemporary tunes, and she was taking advantage of their fast beat. Two or three young men watched her with interest, now and then dancing alongside her or in front of her. Four of Toria's onetime classmates stood a few feet away from the edge of the packed dance floor, staring at her in amazement.

"If that isn't Toria Elliott, then I'm blind as a mole," stated Josh Dinwiddie.

"It _is_ Toria Elliott," said Bill Wallis, "but I can't figure out how. I know for a fact that after our accident, she never walked again."

"Then how could she be dancing?" demanded his wife, Lacey DeHart Wallis. "I heard she was in a wheelchair. Permanently paralyzed from the waist down."

"Not anymore, I guess," observed Anne Carleton. "I say, good for her. They must have discovered her paralysis wasn't permanent after all. She looks great!"

"But that makes no sense at all," Lacey insisted. "That was the worst accident any of us were ever in." She glanced at her feet. "I swear, sometimes I hear that steel rod in my leg creaking in cold weather."

"Some people just get lucky," Josh said, shrugging. "Too bad Aaron's not here to see."

"Yeah," the others murmured, turning aside to pick up their share of food from the buffet tables. None of them noticed that Toria, worn out enough to stop for a rest, had overheard the last three statements, beginning with Anne Carleton's compliment. She now stood frozen on the edge of the dance floor, her mind spinning back fourteen years, seeing the lights bearing down at them head-on in the middle of a rainy evening. She, Anne, Bill and Lacey, Josh, and Mark Hailey were all in one car, coming home from a graduation party, and Bill had been driving, unable to avoid the oncoming car. Lacey had screamed and screamed, clinging to Bill's arm; Toria, in the passenger seat with Lacey wedged in between her and Bill, had been frozen with terror. Anne, Josh and Mark had been shouting at Bill to get off the road, and he'd been yelling back that he couldn't, because of the ditches on both sides. The twin beams had come closer and closer…then the horrific impact, the crunch of metal, the screaming and shouting, the blare of a stuck car horn, the rain in her face and the numbness in her legs…the blood glistening on skin in the skewed headlights…the cries of pain and fear…then she had blacked out and not known anything till three days later. By then, Mark Hailey had died of his injuries, and she was forever robbed of her future.

"Aaron Weld," she whispered. Till this moment, she had never known who'd been driving the car that had hit them: in her pain and rage over her fate, she had refused to speak to any of her classmates again, including those who had been in the car with her. How was it that they could all get up and walk again, despite their injuries, and she was stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of her days? She had spent the subsequent years hating the nameless, faceless perpetrator of the car wreck, wishing desperately for some kind of revenge on him, at least wanting him to pay for what he'd done. He'd crippled her and taken Mark Hailey's life. Why wasn't he being punished?

Now she knew. Aaron Weld had been the driver of the car that had changed her life forever. Granite-faced, she began to search for him.

She was so busy scanning the crowd that she never noticed when she strode past Kurt Jensen, once again surrounded by a bevy of women—this time not only a few of the native girls but several vacationing guests. Never in his life had he had quite this much female attention; he had already begun to think there was something to Roarke's warning about "hazards". More than one angry boyfriend or husband or date approached him and yanked away a protesting female companion, but new women always seemed to be taking the places of those who left. Finally Jensen squirmed out of the knot of women and took off, leaving the luau altogether and pounding away down the first path he came to, running mindlessly till it disgorged him into a small clearing on a clifftop overlooking the ocean. He stumbled to a halt, panting heavily, nearly colliding with someone standing a few yards away from the edge of the cliff, stargazing.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" a female voice exclaimed indignantly.

"Sorry, I didn't see you there," Jensen apologized between frantic breaths. The young woman turned and regarded him curiously for a moment before recognizing him.

"Hey, I know you. Your picture was on the front page of the morning paper," she said. "I'd've thought you'd be at the luau whooping it up with all the new friends your money's undoubtedly bought you."

Jensen slanted her an annoyed look. "You got a problem with my winning the lottery, lady?" he asked, a hint of challenge in his voice. "Or just with the fact that I haven't gotten around to sharing it with you yet?"

The woman rolled her eyes and presented him with her back. "I don't want your money," she said. "If you don't mind, I was here first."

"This your private property?" Jensen retorted.

"Fine, I'll leave," she said frigidly and turned to go down the path from which he'd just emerged. Jensen stood up straight and caught her arm.

"Wait—wait," he said. "I'm sorry about that. I'm just a little P.O.'ed right now on account of some of those 'friends' you mentioned. I'm Kurt Jensen, but you probably already knew that." He grinned apologetically and offered his hand.

She reached out and shook it, looking a little wary but willing to make amends. "I'm Caitlyn D'Angelo," she said. "I live on Coral Island near the Air Force base—I just came over to enjoy the luau, but there must be five hundred people there."

"Heard there's a high-school reunion there," Jensen said. "Sorry to hear your plans got spoiled, Caitlyn. Frankly, it was getting a little crowded for me too. Mind if I share your little piece of paradise here?"

"No, not at all," Caitlyn said and smiled. They both turned to take in the scene before them. A slender crescent moon painted an undulating silver-white line across the waves, and the sky was spangled with dozens of twinkling, glittering lights. A soft breeze, lightly scented with exotic flowers, teased their hair and gently rustled the leaves on the surrounding trees. Fantasy Island's "night crier" bird gave its distinctive call of three two-part rising notes, two soft lamenting wails and a final shuddering cry, paused and repeated the sequence. The man and woman were quiet, listening to a few cycles.

"Never heard that bird before," said Jensen presently.

"It's found only on Fantasy Island," Caitlyn told him. "I had a friend who used to live here, and a couple of times I spent the night at her house. It was really something listening to that bird. I barely slept all night long, trying to figure out why it was crying."

"Crying?" Jensen echoed, amused.

"Well, listen to it. It sounds like it's grieving," Caitlyn said. "Anyway…I did go to high school here, and one of the required courses in eleventh grade is a comprehensive study of the island's history. I guess more of it stuck with me than I realized. That's why I know about that bird. It doesn't have an official name, although I hear Leslie Hamilton named it the 'night crier'. It's as good a name as any, I suppose."

"I see," mumbled Jensen, and at that point they heard sounds other than those of the nocturnal bird. As the noises grew louder, they realized it was human voices, and most of them were female and calling Jensen's name. "Aw, dammit, those freakin' women are still looking for me." He squinted at Caitlyn in the faint moonlight. "You must know your way around. How can I get away from them?"

Caitlyn peered at him askance, then said, "You're serious, aren't you?" He nodded vigorously, and she cast a glance over her shoulder at the path he'd barreled out of. "Well, I think I can get you back to the main house, but from that point on, you're on your own."

"Okay, lead on," he agreed, and plunged after her down a path that led through some eerily dense jungle before spilling out into the side yard of the main house some fifteen minutes later. "Great. Thanks, Caitlyn."

"No problem. My car's parked up here someplace—time for me to get on home."

"Wait…uh, will I see you around here sometime?" Jensen queried hopefully.

Caitlyn studied him. "Well, like I said, I live on Coral Island, but I was planning to do some shopping here tomorrow. Maybe we'll run into each other."

"Why don't we meet for breakfast in town?" Jensen pressed.

She considered this, then shrugged and agreed. "Oh, well, why not? I've always wanted to try the brunch at the pond restaurant; I just never got around to it because it's beyond my budget. But I hear the food is superb there."

Jensen grew abruptly suspicious. "I thought you said you didn't want my money…"

Caitlyn threw her hands in the air. "Never mind. Just forget breakfast altogether. I'm not keeping company with someone who keeps eyeing me like I'm a cat burglar." She strode away from him down the lane.

Jensen cursed himself and ran after her. "No, no, I'm sorry, Caitlyn, really!" But she never broke her stride, and after a moment he gave up, staring after her. _Maybe you're better off, Kurt,_ he thought moodily. _Who knows what's really going through her head anyway._ He gave a loud sigh and decided he'd earned a good solid drunk, and to that end headed for the hotel and its bar. If the drinks were exotic enough, maybe he'd give the bartender a nice reward.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- April 16, 1994

Back at the luau, Leslie and all of her friends sat around a table tossing out name suggestions at Maureen, who had her daughter with her. The baby slept in a little carrier on the tabletop, oblivious to all the noise and excitement, while the women offered assorted ideas. Maureen kept shaking her head, till she finally admitted, "Geez, I'm getting dizzy from all this name-rejecting. I appreciate your help, but somehow nothing seems to fit."

"Didn't Grady find any name books at the library?" Leslie asked.

"No," Maureen said. "I never thought we'd have this much trouble naming this poor child. She's already almost a week old, for heaven's sake. Grady's been calling her Nameless for the last three days, and if we don't watch out, _that'll_ become her name."

Her friends laughed and pretended horror. "Well," Myeko said, "is there anything you _won't_ name her?"

"Yeah," said Maureen. "No trendy stuff. So that leaves out fad names like Madison, Taylor, Ashley, Brittany, Dakota, Sarah, Kayla…"

"Yeah, but I always liked the name Brittany," Camille protested.

"Then you and Jimmy have a daughter and name her Brittany," Maureen said with good humor. "But not my girl. Every third kid is named Taylor, I swear."

"Taylor sounds like a boy's name to me, anyway," Tabitha remarked.

"Me too," Leslie agreed. "And I never liked the name Sarah. I guess that's because I went to school with a Sarah in California who was a notorious bully."

"Why don't you pick something Romanian?" offered Lauren.

"I thought of that, but I don't think it'd go with Harding," Maureen said, sighing. "Maybe I'll give her my mother's name as a middle name, but that depends on what her first name finally turns out to be." She propped her chin on her fist and gazed glumly at the sleeping infant. "Poor baby, at this rate you might never get a name."

"If worse comes to worst," Myeko said, "you and Grady could each just write down your five favorites and drop 'em into a hat, and whatever two you choose, that's her first and middle names." Groans and laughs alike rose up at that, and they were still discussing the merits of this idea when someone stomped to a halt at their table and they all looked around in surprise. Leslie stood up when she recognized Toria Elliott.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Elliott?" she asked, slipping instantly into professional mode.

"Yes, there is," Toria said tightly, clearly very angry and trying to control herself. "I'm looking for someone, and I'm sure you and Mr. Roarke know who's on this island at all times. Where can I find Aaron Weld?"

Leslie looked at her blankly. "Aaron Weld? No one by that name is here as far as I know," she said. "We don't keep a roster of the names of every guest on the island at any given moment. I do know that the reunion group is staying at the hotel, so if you check with the front desk, they should be able to tell you if Aaron Weld is registered there."

Toria frowned. "I see," she said. "Thank you, Leslie." She turned and marched away, and Leslie settled slowly back into her chair, gazing after her in perplexity. She wondered idly if Roarke had any idea what was on Toria Elliott's mind.

"Was that one of your guests?" Tabitha asked.

Leslie turned back to her friends. "Yes, and I'd say she's got a bone to pick with this Aaron Weld, whoever he might be." She cleared her throat. "So, where were we?"

‡ ‡ ‡

Kurt Jensen peered with great interest at his latest drink, a fire-engine-red decoction called a "Volatile Volcano." It definitely reminded him of old film footage he'd seen of newly-erupted lava pouring down the sides of volcanoes, and he hoped it had a corresponding kick to it. He eyed the bartender curiously. "What'd you say is in this?"

"I didn't," the bartender replied, smiling vaguely. "Enjoy, sir."

"Just what I like to hear," Jensen said and immediately gulped down a good two inches of the contents of the glass. Two seconds later, he was gasping for breath, his eyes were tearing up, and his stomach felt as though someone had just lit a match to it. "Perfect," he croaked at the bartender, who raised an eyebrow and turned away without a word.

It was his fourth drink and each had been more potent than the one before it; he was pretty well smashed by now and determined to become more so. The afternoon had rapidly degenerated from something enjoyable to something out of a nightmare. After he and Jeff McKay had gotten him some presentable clothing, they'd discovered that the island police force, headquartered in Amberville, had an open position; and McKay had immediately put in his application. When his credentials were confirmed, he'd been hired on the spot, and was promptly put to work. For McKay, it was a godsend; for Jensen, it was the last good thing that had happened. By then the entire island knew who he was and that he had won a fortune, and he'd been followed everywhere he went by hangers-on, pleading for loans or outright handouts. Shopkeepers knowingly overcharged him for the presents he bought to send home to his relatives and friends. He had been propositioned, and even proposed to, by no fewer than five women, all of them old enough to be his mother. Trying to get the beggars off his back, he'd given cash to all of them, only to find that once those were gone, more took their places. When he tried to stop the outflow, they got angry and made threats, which had intimidated him to the point that he'd given them handouts just to keep the peace. He'd had to return to the main house three times so that Leslie could write him new checks; she said nothing, but he could see the pity beginning to gleam in her eyes.

He'd thought the luau would be an escape, at least until those women's boyfriends had come swaggering in to reclaim their females. Rather than risk an outright fight, he'd run away. And when he'd met Caitlyn D'Angelo, he'd managed to alienate her. Everyone he'd met today had had their hands out, thinking he could solve all their problems. What was wrong with people? He finished his Volatile Volcano in frighteningly short order and signaled the bartender for another drink. Stabbing his finger on the menu, he saw that it had landed on something entitled "Indigo Dynamo." "I'll have that," he slurred.

"Buddy, you're gonna kill yourself if you keep this up," the bartender remarked, mixing up the drink anyway. He looked impressed in spite of himself as he lifted the glass that had contained the Volatile Volcano and examined the dregs. "That's gotta be a record. Last time I served a Volatile Volcano, the guy got through less than half of it before he went off and checked himself into the hospital claiming it was making him hallucinate."

"I wish this weekend was a hallucination," Jensen grumbled. "Think if I get drunk enough, it'll turn out to be just a dream?"

"Nope," said the bartender, putting the new drink in front of him and then peering at him a little more closely. "Say…aren't you that guy who won the lottery?"

Jensen favored him with a poisonous look and tucked into the Indigo Dynamo for a good ten seconds before replying. "That's me all right, runnin' my own personal bank."

The bartender nodded knowingly, leaning over the countertop in a conspiratorial manner. "Everybody's got their hands out, huh?"

"Man, you said it," Jensen said emphatically and tossed back another generous swig of his drink. "I think the only people on this island that haven't come after me for free money are Roarke and Leslie. And that's only because Roarke doesn't need it and Leslie's the one writing my checks. Man, money turns people into jerks. Greedy, selfish, abusive jerks. They all want their piece of me, and they don't care how they get it. I was tryin' to keep 'em happy so they wouldn't flatten me, but they just never quit coming. I hadda go off and hide in my bungalow till they gave up on me. And then I went and met this really nice girl, and since everybody else wanted cash, I figured she did too. Said she didn't, but when I asked her out for breakfast, she suggested the most expensive place she could think of. So who knows? Y'can't trust anybody anymore." Once again he tilted the glass and drained a large percentage of its contents.

"Shame, isn't it?" the bartender said sympathetically. "You'd think winning the lottery would solve all your problems, but I guess it just brings on a whole new set."

"For sure, for sure," Jensen agreed, sighing. "I think after this drink, I'm going over and see Roarke and have him cancel this whole stupid fantasy." He dug a fifty out of his pocket and handed it to the bartender. "That's for you. How much were the drinks?"

"Five apiece," said the bartender, looking stunned. "Hey, you don't have to…"

Jensen shook his head and gave him another twenty-five dollars. "You're just about the only person who hasn't asked me for money," he said. "So I wanted to give you something just on account of that." He polished off the drink and got to his feet, almost stumbling. "Whoops. Guess those suckers were a little stronger than I thought."

"You need a ride back to your bungalow?" asked the bartender.

"Oh, he doesn't need any ride," said a new voice, and they both looked around to see three men dressed like 1930s movie gangsters. "We'll take him home…for a price."

Jensen gave them a once-over and grinned; the grin became a series of snickers that shortly graduated into roars of laughter. "Where'd you get those costumes, off the _Bugsy Malone_ set?" he guffawed. "Geez, that's the best laugh I've had all day."

"Uh, pal, I think they're serious," the bartender said, looking slightly nervous.

"Smart fella," said the first gangster and withdrew a gun from a holster under his jacket, moving at a leisurely pace and patiently pointing it directly at Jensen's face till Jensen stopped laughing enough to take notice. His surprised reaction produced a satisfied smirk. "We couldn't help overhearing your complaints about that money, and we'd be more than happy to take it off your hands."

Jensen, though no longer laughing, was too drunk to be alarmed; he just grew indignant. "Oh yeah? You and every other freeloader on this island. Well, I got news for you, friend. I have about a hundred bucks left on me right now. Some of the rest is in the bank, and as far as the bulk of the money is concerned, it's beyond my reach."

"Y'wanna explain what you mean by that?" the gangster demanded.

Jensen shrugged. "Roarke's daughter writes me the checks."

The gangster nodded in contemplation. "Well, then, we'll take you by the main house and you can have Roarke's daughter write you another check. Tell her you need the whole amount. Then we'll take you along to the casino and you can cash it there."

"Even the casino can't cash that big a check," Jensen protested.

"Yes they can," the gangster said, waggling his gun three inches from Jensen's nose. "When they see me, they're always happy to oblige. Come on now, we're going over to the main house for that little check. You'll never miss it."

"Yeah, I will," Jensen said. "I've got about half my original win left. I made some…uh, charitable donations." The last two words were drenched in sarcasm.

The bartender gaped at him; even the gangsters were impressed enough to look at each other in astonishment. "One freakin' day, and you spent a hundred million bucks?" the gunman finally blurted in disbelief.

Jensen shrugged again and said, "Well, as they say, easy come, easy go. C'mon, Bugsy." He turned and headed for the exit, taking careful steps but still listing perceptibly to one side and occasionally tripping over his own two feet. The gangsters followed.

But it was late enough that when they arrived at the main house, the windows were dark; clearly, Roarke and Leslie had retired for the night. Jensen glanced at his companions. "I guess the bank's closed," he joked weakly.

"Well, open it," said the gunman flatly, prodding him in the shoulder. "Go knock on the door and wake somebody up."

"Or else what?" Jensen demanded, at the end of his rope. "What the hell're you planning to do to me anyway? If you off me, you won't get any money, so that's out. If I refuse to inconvenience my hosts, you can't do anything about that. Not unless you yourself are planning to break into that house and make Leslie write you a check at gunpoint. Something tells me she wouldn't appreciate that."

The gunman lost his patience. "Nobody likes a smartass," he said. "If we do decide to off you, it's no skin off our noses. Besides, we're not even the ones who're lookin' for the cash. Offin' you would actually be a pleasure, but our boss would much rather relieve you of all those problems you were talkin' about back in the bar. I'd'a thought you'd be glad about that, seein' as you didn't sound too happy about bein' rich anymore."

"Look, it's one thing to help out people who don't have much," Jensen said. "But your boss sounds like the kind of guy who already has more than his share and just gets his kicks outta takin' it from other people."

"He thinks he's Robin Hood," said the gunman, and his two cronies laughed, the first sounds they'd made the entire time. "Well, think of me as the Sheriff of Nottingham: I'm puttin' a stop to those charitable donations of yours."

"Dammit," muttered Jensen before his sodden brain made a belated connection and he remembered he'd planned to pay Roarke a visit anyway. "Okay, okay, but if I can't wake up Roarke's daughter, that's not my fault."

The gunman shrugged and settled down in his seat; Jensen got out of the station wagon in which they'd arrived and tried to run to the house, with only partial success. He staggered across the porch and had to catch himself with both hands against the door. For some reason he tried the knob; of course, it was locked. He began to pound on the door, hoping against hope that it would rouse someone inside, specifically Roarke.

About five minutes passed before the elegant lamp within an iron frame suspended from the porch ceiling came on, making him squint in the nearly-moonless night. Seconds later the door opened, silhouetting Roarke. "Good evening, Mr. Jensen," he said, perfectly poised, apparently not the slightest bit put out at being rousted out of bed. In fact, he was fully dressed, right down to his white suit jacket, shiny shoes and even his gold pocket watch on its chain. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yes, Mr. Roarke, there sure is," Jensen said, glancing nervously behind him into the darkness, which he couldn't see into due to the porch light. "You can cancel my fantasy."

Roarke's quizzical expression grew regretful. "I am sorry, Mr. Jensen, but that's not possible," he said.

Jensen gawked at him without comprehension. "Huh? Whaddaya mean it's not possible? If you can grant my fantasy, then you can stop it, can't you?"

"Unfortunately, no," said Roarke. "Once a fantasy has begun, I no longer have any control over it, and it certainly cannot be stopped. Are you having difficulties?"

Jensen snorted. "Now that's gotta be the understatement of the decade. Three of those 'difficulties' are sitting in a car in the lane behind me, waiting for me to produce a check for the rest of my lottery winnings. And if I don't cough it up, they're gonna put a bullet or two in my head, and probably drop what's left of me off some cliff."

Roarke gazed at him in mild surprise. "Indeed! And am I to assume that this is your purpose in coming here? You do realize that the banks aren't open."

"He said the casino'd cash it," Jensen said. "Mr. Roarke, if you can't cancel my fantasy, then I'd think the least you could do is call the cops on these jokers."

"On what grounds, precisely?" Roarke asked, his expression gradually hardening. "Mr. Jensen, I know only what you have just told me; and—forgive me, but it's plain that you've been drinking. Furthermore, I see no car in the lane."

"But they're—" Jensen spun on one heel and pointed, only to find that Roarke was right. "They were right there! They brought me over here! Mr. Roarke, I'm not kidding…"

Roarke eyed him for a long moment before relenting slightly; Jensen could see the skepticism in his dark eyes, though his expression was carefully controlled. "If you feel that you're in danger, Mr. Jensen, I can arrange for transportation back to your bungalow."

"That'd be great, Mr. Roarke," Jensen said, too relieved to try to argue his point any further. He followed Roarke into the house and flopped into a chair. "I really should've paid more attention when you mentioned those hazards this morning."

Roarke only glanced at him, picking up the phone and making a short call. He then turned to Jensen. "I've arranged for a police jeep to take you to your bungalow."

"Thanks again, Mr. Roarke, I really appreciate that," Jensen said meekly. "I apologize for waking you up, too. It's just that those guys were gonna…" He broke off, seeing Roarke's expression, and sighed. "Never mind."

Roarke settled onto the desktop and regarded him quietly for a moment or two, and Jensen shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. Finally he asked plaintively, "Why'd everything have to fall apart like this? All I wanted was to enjoy being rich for a weekend. Instead, just about everybody on the island has his hand out, waiting for me to grease his palm, and now I've got these Al Capone types trying to extort me. This fantasy's really been a bust and a half."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Roarke neutrally.

"That's what you get when you try to do something nice for someone, I guess," Jensen muttered. "Bought some kids the dolls they wanted. Sent a couple families to the amusement park. Helped out a guy who was down on his luck. Bought some groceries for a family in the fishing village. Treated some folks to lunch. Donated a nice sum to a kid raising cash for a cure for cancer. Gave a guy money for prescription medicine for his sick kid. Lent my support to the…" He mumbled on and on for the next ten minutes while Roarke listened in silent amazement, till there came a knock on the door.

"Come in," Roarke called.

None other than Jeff McKay entered the foyer and Jensen popped to his feet. "Hey, Jeff, man, it's good to see ya! Thanks again, Mr. Roarke."

"Come on, Kurt, time for you to get some sleep," McKay said and nodded at Roarke. "Anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"That will be all, officer, thank you," Roarke said. McKay nodded and ushered Jensen out the door ahead of him. Roarke waited till it had closed behind them before he shook his head in sheer disbelief, turned out the lamp and made his way upstairs.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- April 16, 1994

Toria Elliott, running on the adrenaline of outraged anger, walked all the way from the luau to the hotel and entered the lobby without breaking stride. At the front desk she confronted the sleepy, startled clerk with, "I need to know what Aaron Weld's room number is."

The clerk peered at her in confusion. "Do you know him?"

"Yes, he's an old schoolmate of mine," Toria said, "and I want to talk to him."

The clerk nodded and referred to her computer, checking the names of every guest in the hotel before looking up at Toria with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, ma'am, there's no one here by that name."

Toria stared at the girl in disbelief. "But he came for the reunion, and I overheard some classmates of mine mention him. He has to be here!"

The clerk's smile went sympathetic. "Maybe he's in one of the bungalows or the B&B," she offered. "You could try there."

"The B&B?" Toria repeated in surprise. "Where's that?"

The clerk gave her quick directions, and she thanked the girl and left the hotel. Aaron Weld was going to answer for what he'd done sooner or later, and she intended to make sure that happened. She was too single-minded in her purpose to consider anything else.

By the time the luau had finally wound down, Samantha and Darryl were both too tired to contemplate anything other than getting some sleep. Samantha peered around for her sister, but couldn't see her anywhere. Darryl watched for a moment before teasing, "Hey, I brought you here—I take you home."

She grinned at him. "I just wanted to be sure Toria wasn't overdoing it. Maybe she already went back to our bungalow. You know, this has been a really super evening."

Darryl smiled. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. Although, you know, it doesn't have to be over yet…unless you're too worn out to consider prolonging it."

Samantha hesitated, swept her gaze across the crowd in one final fruitless attempt to locate Toria, then shrugged and smiled back at him. "You know, it's been a long time since I saw the Milky Way. Maybe it'll be dark enough on the beach someplace to see it."

"What about the lagoon?" Darryl offered.

"Lead on," she said, and they studied each other for a long moment before smiling at the same moment and wheeling themselves away from the noisy party.

Fortunately the lagoon was deserted at this late hour, and Samantha was enchanted by the reflection of stars on the dark, still water. "What a perfect spot! You know, I really can't get over this island. There's no place on earth more beautiful than this."

"Guess that's what keeps Mr. Roarke in business," Darryl joked and maneuvered his chair to a stop as close to Samantha's as he could get it. "So, can you see the Milky Way?"

Samantha tilted her head back and peered at the clear sky far above, searching the glittering constellations and finding herself picking out one after another, naming them with a speed and knowledge that impressed Darryl. "Wow, you really know your stars!"

"I remember when I was a kid, I wanted to become an astronomer," Samantha said dreamily, gazing into outer space. "Instead, somehow I wound up being a bank executive. I'm not sure how I went from the stars to the earth. There's nothing more grounded than banking, let me tell you. I really needed this break to remind me that there's more to life than monetary transactions."

Darryl laughed. "That's probably the first time I've ever heard anyone express gratitude for being confined to a wheelchair. You talk like you have to go back to that life."

Samantha caught her breath and forgot the stars, staring at Darryl for a moment. "Do you ever wish you could go back to your old life?" she asked hesitantly, trying to deflect his attention away from its dangerously close focus on her true status.

Darryl settled back and considered this. "Well, once in a while," he said, "I find myself thinking it'd be nice to be able to ride a bike, or just take a walk around the city. But I've known most of my life that this time was coming, so when it came I guess I was about as prepared as I could ever be." He leaned forward and peered at her. "It sounds to me like you haven't quite reconciled yourself yet. I don't want to pry, but tell me…just how did you end up in that chair?"

She drew in a long breath and turned away then, staring without seeing at the reflected stars in the lagoon. "It's a long story, and you're probably going to hate me after I finish telling you," she finally murmured in resignation.

Darryl folded her hand in his. "Samantha Elliott, I don't think there's any way on this earth I could hate you," he assured her, turning her face toward him and softly kissing her. It began as a sort of introductory kiss, uncertain at first; but some spark flared into abrupt life between them and within seconds it had grown heated enough to make them both forget their abandoned conversation.

§ § § -- April 17, 1994

"I don't get it, Sammie," Toria said in frustration, pacing the main room of the bungalow while Samantha, placidly eating breakfast, watched her. "I know Aaron Weld has to be on this island, but he's not at the hotel and he isn't registered at the bed-and-breakfast inn either. I wonder if Mr. Roarke and Leslie would tell me what bungalow he's in."

Samantha eyed Toria curiously. "Aren't you taking this vendetta thing a little far?"

Toria stopped pacing and gave her a hard stare. "Is my memory faulty or something? I mean, I did tell you what I heard last night, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," her sister replied, spooning salsa over her scrambled eggs. "But Toria, you yourself said you heard only part of what your old friends said."

Toria shook her head. "So?"

"So you don't know the whole story. For all you know, Aaron Weld isn't on the island at all, and that could be because he was arrested for drunk driving, death resulting, and is serving time."

"Well, I'd prefer to find out for myself," Toria said tightly. Something occurred to her then and she peered at Samantha. "Sammie…where were you last night? You came in awfully late, you know."

Samantha glanced serenely up from her breakfast. "Did I?"

"Yes," Toria said, going to the table and leaning over till her face was inches from Samantha's. "Don't tell me you had a hot date."

Samantha met Toria's gaze, and then a slow grin bloomed unexpectedly across her features. "As a matter of fact, I did. If you'd hung around here instead of tearing off to the luau for that dancing you wanted to do so badly, you'd have met him. His name's Darryl Kellett and he's from Chicago. Retired stockbroker, really nice guy."

"_Retired_ stockbroker?" echoed Toria. "Sammie, how old is this guy?"

Samantha burst out laughing. "Roughly my age, Toria, so don't get all excited. He made some excellent investments and was able to retire early. Here's the kicker. He's in a wheelchair too—muscular dystrophy." Her features turned pensive.

Toria read her expression. "Oh no. Sammie, you haven't told him that wheelchair's really mine, have you?"

Samantha shook her head. "No, and I'm terrified to. I think he really feels we have something fundamental in common because of this thing. When he finds out I can walk, there's no telling what it'll do to whatever's developing between us."

Toria sighed, amused. "I must admit, I never thought a romance could be destroyed because somebody _wasn't_ in a wheelchair. Look, I might not know much of anything about love, but I gotta tell you this at least. If he bases his feelings for you on whether you're in a wheelchair or on your own two feet, then he's not worth the worry."

"I know that," said Samantha glumly, "but tell it to my heart."

Toria smiled and patted her sister's shoulder. "Well, if it's right, it'll work out. I'm going over to see Mr. Roarke. Need anything before I go?"

Samantha shook her head. "No, but thanks. Y'know, sis, this weekend's been such an eye-opener. I wish there were a way to make it last longer."

A shadow crossed Toria's face and she gave a wistful nod. "Me too." She cleared her throat more thoroughly than she needed to and jogged toward the door. "Well, I'm off."

Aware that her period of mobility was numbered in hours, she alternated between walking, jogging and running all the way to the main house. She found Roarke and Leslie in the study, he going over figures and she gathering together a stack of letters for answering. They both looked up when she stuck her head through the doorway and around the corner, smiling greetings. "Good morning, Miss Elliott," said Roarke.

"Good morning, Mr. Roarke, Leslie," Toria replied. "Can you spare a few minutes?"

"Of course," Roarke said. "Please come in." Toria did so and settled into one of the chairs in front of the desk; Leslie started across the room with the letters, but Toria sat up.

"I wish you'd stay too," she said. "I think I might need an extra point of view here."

"Oh," said Leslie, surprised. "Well, let me put these over near the computer, and then we can all talk."

"Have you been enjoying your fantasy, Miss Elliott?" questioned Roarke warmly.

She grinned. "Mr. Roarke, it's been amazing. I've been trying to do everything I possibly can before…" Her features clouded over again and she sighed. "Well, before I have to confine myself to a permanently seated position again. The luau last night was something else again. I had so much fun dancing…the food tasted wonderful and everything was so exotic and exciting. What a smashing time I had." Her smile was wistful.

Roarke smiled too, genuinely pleased. "I am very glad to know you enjoyed yourself." Leslie returned and sat in the other chair, and he closed his ledger and devoted full attention to Toria. "What was it you wished to discuss?"

She drew in a breath and got a determined look about her. "Mr. Roarke, I need to know where Aaron Weld is staying."

Roarke looked blank. "Aaron Weld?"

Leslie broke in, "You didn't find him at the hotel?"

"No," said Toria and shook her head.

Roarke glanced back and forth between his daughter and their guest. "Forgive me, but perhaps you would grant me the favor of telling me who Aaron Weld is."

"He was a former classmate of mine in high school," Toria said. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Roarke…" She hesitated, took a deep breath and shifted in her chair so that she could include Leslie in the conversation. "You both know that I lost the use of my legs in a car accident right after graduation. Well, while I was dancing last night, I overheard my former friends from school." She repeated the comments she had heard. "Then Josh Dinwiddie said, 'Too bad Aaron's not here to see'—and that's how I found out who was driving the car that hit us that night. You see, Bill Wallis was driving, Lacey was next to him and I was on the passenger side. Anne and Josh were in the backseat with Mark Hailey, who was my boyfriend back then. When the other car hit us, there were injuries besides mine, though I got the worst of it. But I was lucky enough to live through it. Mark died." Roarke's expression turned sympathetic and Leslie winced on Toria's behalf. "Now, thanks to Josh, I know who crippled me and killed Mark. Aaron Weld got away with manslaughter and drunk driving, and I want him to pay for it. I want to be sure he gets what's coming to him. That's why I'm here: I want to know where he's staying."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other with comprehension; then Roarke turned to Toria and said gently, "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Elliott, but there is no guest here by the name of Aaron Weld."

Toria stared at him. "But…that doesn't make sense. He's got to be here!"

"It's possible that he couldn't face what he'd done and decided not to come," Leslie offered, "or else he might in fact be serving time."

"That's what Sammie said," Toria said, "but drunk driving doesn't carry that large a punishment, unfortunately, manslaughter or no. You're really sure Aaron isn't here?"

"I am quite certain," Roarke said, regarding her thoughtfully. "Miss Elliott, from what you have told us, it appears you heard only the last few moments of the conversation you described. I strongly suspect you don't have the full story from Mr. Weld's side, and it's my advice that you touch base with your friends and ask them what they know."

Toria considered this. "You have a point, Mr. Roarke. I deliberately fell out of touch with them after the accident. Well, when I do find out, Aaron's getting what he deserves."

Roarke leaned forward slightly. "Miss Elliott, there may be far more to the situation than you are willing to see. Do you know for a fact that Mr. Weld was driving drunk? Do you know for a fact that he was driving at all?" He took in her stunned look. "While I can understand and even appreciate your anger over the events that took place that night, I feel obligated to advise you that in the end, it is not your prerogative to bring down justice. It isn't your place to decide who is to be punished and how."

Toria stared at him. "But he got away with—"

"Murder?" Roarke interjected, his voice sharpening a notch. "Perhaps so, Miss Elliott, but you are letting your own bitterness color your feelings. And as I said, you don't have the full story. At the very least, speak with your companions and find out what they know. As to what Mr. Weld's fate should be, however, that isn't your decision to make."

Toria looked betrayed; after a moment she appealed to Leslie. "What would you do?"

Leslie, caught off guard by the sudden question, bought herself a moment or two with a deep breath. Tossing an apologetic glance in Roarke's direction, she admitted, "I expect I'd have had a reaction very similar to yours. On the other hand, it's only right that you find out everything, as Father said. I know I'd want all the facts before I jumped off the deep end." She saw Toria's pained grimace and added kindly, "Look at it this way. It's better you find out all you possibly can before you wade into what could turn out to be some very deep water. If Aaron Weld really is guilty of driving while intoxicated, at least you'll have all the available facts. It sounds to me as if that'd be a lot more information than you have right now, and you wouldn't have much of a case based on that."

Toria mulled over Leslie's words while she and Roarke watched quietly, then looked up and smiled slightly. "You're both right. I guess I'm too close to the situation to see it very clearly. Thank you both for your input."

"You're very welcome, Miss Elliott," Roarke said, the warmth back in his voice.

At that point the door opened again and Gabi Wickham Josephson, whom Toria hadn't seen since their meeting at the pool the day before, came inside, stopping short when she saw Toria. "Oh. Sorry, Mr. Roarke, I didn't realize you were busy."

"Oh, don't worry, I was just leaving," said Toria, getting up. She stopped for a moment and studied Gabi. "Um…is it urgent, whatever you have to talk to Mr. Roarke about? I, uh, thought we could talk."

Gabi returned her gaze warily. "Well, I guess it's not an emergency. Actually, Mr. Roarke, I just wanted to know if it's possible for Dean and me to extend our stay. We heard a room's opening up in the bed-and-breakfast, and we were hoping to get it. We wanted to stay there originally, but it was booked."

Roarke smiled. "Let me check with its proprietress and I'll let you know. You and your husband are in the hotel, correct?"

Gabi nodded. "That's right, room 304. Thanks, Mr. Roarke. If I'm not in, Dean's there and you can speak with him."

"Very well, Mrs. Josephson." Roarke nodded. "Enjoy the morning, ladies."

Gabi and Toria both thanked him and left the house, Gabi back on her guard and Toria feeling very sheepish. "Well," Toria murmured, "it sounds like you and Dean are having a whale of a time here."

"We are," said Gabi. "Dean was due some extra vacation, and…well, we just decided we wanted to stay longer." She slanted a leery glance at Toria. "How's Sam?"

"Fine," Toria said, hesitating and then stopping in the lane. "Oh God, Gabi, I feel like a real heel. I should've told you all this yesterday, and I've been regretting it ever since then. I just wasn't sure you'd believe me, that's all."

Gabi's eyebrows knit in perplexity. "Believe you? You're losing me, Toria. Maybe we should find a place to sit down—this sounds serious."

"It is," Toria said. "I'm heading for the hotel to talk to Anne Carleton anyway. Let me explain it to you on the way there."


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § -- April 17, 1994

Kurt Jensen didn't leave his bungalow till lunchtime, and that only because he was utterly ravenous. Once out the door, though, he sprinted around to the back of the bungalow and then proceeded to sneak through the trees, keeping well away from the established trails and even farther from the road. He found the pond restaurant in this manner, in over twice the time it would have taken him to walk there via the road or a path, and managed to put away a three-course meal in spite of his jumpy nerves. He shoveled the food in mainly by feel, since he spent most of his meal constantly scanning the room for the gangsters.

He was left alone throughout the meal and paid his bill with a sense of relief, leaving the last of his ready cash as a tip for the waiter before deciding to make his way to the main house and ask Leslie for another check. He peered in both directions as he stepped out the door, then did the fifty-yard dash along the restaurant entry dock back to dry land and began to slink through the trees once more.

He was literally within sight of the main house when the gangsters stepped coolly in front of him from the other side of the trail whose path he had been trying to parallel. The gunman grinned at him. "Sneakin' through the jungle. That's straight outta Hollywood, pal. Y'know, y'might even have made it, if you weren't wearin' that freakin' T-shirt." Jensen's T-shirt was the crimson of an overripe tomato and bore the bright-yellow legend _PROPERTY OF FANTASY ISLAND SPORTS CLUB_ across the front.

Jensen glared at him. "Right, so I guess that makes us even, Bugsy. Do I even have to guess what you clowns want?"

"I doubt it," said the gunman cheerfully and waved the gun at him. "C'mon, move."

Jensen rolled his eyes and headed for the main house; with any luck, Roarke would be there again, and that would be enough to get rid of these crazies. However, this time it looked as if fate was smiling on the gangsters. Approaching the main house from the terrace in the rear, he could easily see into Roarke's study through the open French shutters, enough to ascertain that Leslie was currently the only occupant.

"That Roarke's daughter?" asked the gunman.

"Yeah, that's her," said Jensen.

"Then g'wan," his antagonist urged impatiently, prodding him with the gun for added emphasis. Jensen grunted at the poking and reluctantly stepped forward, crossing the terrace and entering the study. Leslie looked up.

"Hi, Mr. Jensen. Don't tell me…you need another check," she said.

"Uh…yeah." Jensen strolled casually to the desk and leaned forward while she stared at him with a hint of suspicion in her gaze. He shot a split-second glance out the open doors and then whispered, "After you write me the check, call the cops—there's three Hollywood-lookin' gangster types trying to extort the rest of my lottery money outta me."

She stared at him in disbelief, but the words had no time to really sink in before the aforementioned gangsters crowded into the room the same way Jensen had entered. "Ya blew it, bud," the gunman announced with mock regret. "Now you got the lady in hot water right along with ya." He turned to a startled Leslie and brandished his gun at her. "However much this guy has left of his lottery jackpot, write him a check for the whole thing. And then the five of us are takin' a little trip over to the casino."

Leslie slowly stood up. "The casino can't cash a check that big," she said.

"Yes they can, little lady, 'cause I know some influential people," the gunman told her. "C'mon, write the check. I don't have all day, and I'm sure you'd rather just get this over with. See, as long as you cooperate, nothin'll happen to ya."

"Famous last words," Leslie muttered, but she sat back in Roarke's chair again and extracted the checkbook from the locked drawer. Four pairs of eyes, one anxious and three gleaming with avarice, watched as she wrote out a check for the full amount remaining of Jensen's lottery winnings. She tore the check out and then hesitated. "And to whom am I supposed to give this?"

"Me," Jensen said, tweaking it neatly out of her hand and glaring at the gangsters. "It _is_ made out to me, after all."

The gunman shrugged. "Okay, lady, let's get goin'."

Leslie scowled but got up once more, pausing to relock the drawer before rounding the desk and heading for the foyer. Jensen fell into step behind her, and the gangsters followed along. They directed Leslie to take the wheel of the station wagon that sat in the lane out front, and she drove to the casino, wondering what it was about these three characters that annoyed her rather than alarming her. Jensen seemed to feel the same way, judging from the black glares he kept directing over his shoulder.

At the casino the gunman concealed his weapon before slipping his arm through Leslie's as though escorting her inside. She rewarded him with a revolted glower but allowed the contact with clear reluctance. The little group proceeded to weave their way through knots of guests, all the way to the casino's back room, where one of the gangsters thudded on the door with several meaty knuckles.

"Yeah?" came a muffled, low-pitched voice from within.

"It's us, boss," said Knuckles.

"Okay, c'mon in." Knuckles opened the door and let Jensen and the gunman, who still had Leslie's arm in his, precede him inside before sliding in himself. The third gangster closed the door behind them. They found themselves in a dimly-lit room that reeked of stale cigars. Leslie's breath caught with a choking sound and, yanking her arm from the gunman's, she clapped both hands over her mouth, looking nauseated.

"Well, we got him, boss," the gunman said, casting her an amused glance. "Mission accomplished. We got the check, and all we gotta do is cash it, then we're outta here."

"Not so fast," cautioned the voice. A lamp on the desk snapped on, revealing the face of the ringleader. It was Jensen's turn to choke. The face belonged to Anuhea!

"Oh my God," Leslie muttered.

Jensen gaped at her. "You! The cute native girl who works for Mr. Roarke?"

"Can it," Anuhea snapped, and Jensen fell silent but glared at her. Leslie sighed, then regretted it when she got a potent whiff of week-old stogies. Meanwhile Anuhea stared at the gangsters. "Geez, you three goons, look at yourselves. Where the hell did you get those damn suits, anyway?"

"What, you didn't give Bugsy and his buddies their costumes?" Jensen sneered.

Anuhea flattened both hands on the desk and rose, glaring at him. "I told you to can it," she said before shifting her attention to the gangsters with growing disbelief and fury. "And for the love of God, what've you got Roarke's daughter with you for? Are you idiots _trying_ to botch this thing up?"

"We had to, boss," the gunman protested. "Jensen tried to let on to her that we were after him, and we didn't have any choice but to bring her."

Anuhea groaned aloud and shook her head. "I'll never learn," she grumbled to herself before lifting her gaze back to Jensen's. "Okay, Kurt, let's cash the check. And don't try any smart stuff, else you'll wind up involving even more innocent people. As it is, I'm gonna be lucky to get away before Roarke stops me, seeing as I've got his own kid here." She made a gesture at the gangsters, who proceeded to herd Leslie and Jensen out the door ahead of them with Anuhea bringing up the rear. Keeping to the back wall of the gambling room, they trooped along to the nearest cashier's window, where Anuhea leaned down and poked her head clear through the opening. "Cassie, go get Chet."

The lone cashier vanished, and Anuhea pulled her head back out and rapidly scanned the crowded room. Leslie did likewise, and Anuhea caught her at it and smiled as if at a misbehaving toddler. "Uh-uh-uh, sweetie, that's a no-no. Your daddy isn't here, so don't bother hunting for him." Leslie threw her one fast, disgusted look and went right back to studying the room. It took scant seconds for her to realize that Anuhea was right; Roarke's attire would have stood out in this crowd of colorfully-dressed patrons, and she didn't see anyone wearing white.

However, unbeknownst to them all, there was in fact someone watching them. Near the blackjack table, Caitlyn D'Angelo had noticed the group skulking along the wall and wondered why it looked as if they were acting oddly. Now she found herself eyeing the woman standing beside Leslie, trying to figure out where she'd seen her before. One of the others turned and she gasped softly. It was Kurt Jensen! Now she knew something was up, but she couldn't be sure just what.

Cassie returned with a barrel-shaped man puffing on an enormous cigar, wearing a gray suit that might have been rumpled if his bulk hadn't been stretching it close to the point of seam-splitting. Anuhea beamed at him. "Hiya, Chet, sweetheart. Wanna cash this thing for us? Then you and me and the Goonie Gang here'll blow this Popsicle stand." She handed the check, filched from Jensen, through the window to Chet.

"No problem, honey," said Chet with a smirk and began to gather the money. Leslie watched in silence; the gangsters tilted eagerly forward, all but drooling; and Jensen stood looking forlorn. His gaze met Leslie's, and they both smiled in apology.

"Sorry I got you into this mess," he mumbled to her.

"Sorry your fantasy turned into such a fiasco," she murmured back regretfully.

"Aw, I turned it into a fiasco myself," Jensen admitted. "I shoulda been happy with my half-broke existence back in Plainville."

Leslie gave him a crooked little grin. "The proverbial greener grass," she said.

Anuhea finally noticed them conversing and whacked Jensen in the head with the back of her hand. "For the last time, can it!"

"Will you lay off me, you loser?" Jensen snapped back and booted her in the shin. Anuhea yelped and hopped back, her face reddening with mingled pain and rage. In the process she grew careless, and Caitlyn D'Angelo got a good look at her face.

_Hey, I know her!_ she thought, stunned. _Saw her on a Wanted poster in the post office yesterday!_ Immediately she began to thread her way among milling gamblers, making a beeline for a pay phone she remembered seeing at the entrance.

Anuhea, glaring at Jensen, leaned toward the window again. "Chet, the money!" she hissed. "Get a move on so we can get out of here without attracting any more attention!"

"Babe, I'm trying, but this is a lotta dough," Chet protested.

"Well, hurry up," Anuhea ordered.

Chet paused and gave her an exasperated look, propping one plump hand on his substantial hip. "Just button it up a minute and let me finish cleaning out the drawers." He went back to work, while Jensen and Leslie slanted cautious sidelong glances at each other, both wondering how much of a ruckus they could make before the gunman got upset enough to actually use his weapon.

Caitlyn completed her call in record time and stood on tiptoe, just barely able to make out the little group all the way across the massive gambling room. Nervously she twisted her head back and forth, frequently checking the entrance and then the back of the room to be sure her quarry was still there. A few people coming in or going out gave her odd looks, but no one commented or stopped to ask questions.

"So, Anuhea…if that's really your name," Jensen said, striving for a casual air, "did Mr. Roarke have any idea you were a crook when he hired you for…whatever he hired you for?" Leslie peered at him with a strongly dubious expression; he wasn't much of an actor.

Anuhea gave him a dirty look. "Hilarious, Kurt. But if you really must know, I have three little girls to support. I'm a single mother and I can't possibly raise my kids on the slave wages I get paid here. Your lottery win and your generosity showed me the perfect way out of this dead-end job." She clearly felt quite strongly about this subject and favored Leslie with a particularly nasty glare as she went on complaining. "I guess you have no idea that your vaunted, illustrious adoptive father can be an incredible skinflint. I brought my girls here from Hawaii believing in the reputation of the benevolent, generous Mr. Roarke, and when I got here all I could get was a job as a maid. Chief cook and bottle-washer isn't the title I was aspiring to."

Leslie met her glare with a gaze of mock pity. "Aw, poor deprived you. For the record, my father doesn't do the hiring for these jobs. As I recall it, you worked for the hotel, and the manager handles the hiring of staff there. The only job Father is responsible for filling is the position of his own assistant."

"Well, la-de-da," sneered Anuhea. "Whatever, sweetie. At any rate, I'm getting out of this place, with the help of your guest Mr. Lucky here. Me and Chet are gonna get married and go live in Tahiti, where I can raise my girls in style." She shifted her attention to Jensen and patted his arm. "By the way, thanks for getting those dolls for my kids. They were hounding me for months about those things, so you got 'em off my back."

"More's the pity," said Jensen sourly.

Anuhea merely gave him a sugary smile, at which point Chet knocked on the cashier window. "Got all the cash that's here, babe. Let's make tracks."

"Get moving," Anuhea commanded, pushing the nearest gangster. They began to plow across the nearly-packed gambling room; Chet, emerging from an employee entrance and cradling a bulging canvas bag to his chest as if it were a newborn baby, caught up with them, bringing up the rear. At the entrance, Caitlyn D'Angelo saw them coming and all but panicked, staring at the door and desperately willing the authorities to show up before the group of thieves made their getaway.

The gang and their two kidnap victims were within ten yards of the entrance when Caitlyn's silent pleas were answered and half a dozen members of the island police force poured through the doorway. There were too many people in the casino and the gang was trapped; there was no choice but for them to submit.

Jensen blinked in amazement when he got a good look at one of the cops. "Jeff," he said, astonished.

Jeff McKay grinned. "Told you I'd pay you back, friend."

Roarke had entered just behind the policemen. "Leslie, are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded and grinned at him. "No harm done, Father. For the most part it was a comedy of errors."

Roarke chuckled. "Good. And you, Mr. Jensen?"

Kurt Jensen heaved a deep sigh and let his gaze drift ceilingward. "Well, I guess I ought to be glad these crooks were caught, but brother…I'm not sure this was worth it."

Roarke smiled. "Perhaps you'll feel differently when you learn the identity of the person who engineered your, uh, rescue." He gestured behind him, and Caitlyn D'Angelo moved into Jensen's sight, making him gape at her in astonishment. "Yes, this young lady recognized the ringleader from a photograph displayed in the central post office on Coral Island. Apparently Anuhea has been responsible for a series of crimes committed there and on a number of other nearby islands, as well as in Hawaii."

"Wow," said Jensen. "Y'know, Caitlyn D'Angelo, I could absolutely kiss you."

Caitlyn eyed him and slowly smiled. "Well, then, why don't you?"

Jensen's eyebrows popped up for just a moment; then he matched her smile and took her up on her offer, right there in the middle of the casino entryway with at least forty people within sight, while the cops shepherded the hapless Anuhea and her accomplices out the door. Jeff McKay, the last to leave, glanced behind him long enough to grin widely before prodding Chet forward. Roarke and Leslie lingered only long enough to trade satisfied glances, then made their own exit.


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § -- April 17, 1994

Anne Carleton welcomed Toria and Gabi into her hotel room with a delighted grin. "Hi, you two, it's great to see you!" she exclaimed. "Gabi Wickham, it's been forever since we saw each other last. Where was it you moved to, Nova Scotia?"

Gabi nodded and returned Anne's hug, explaining about her recent marriage. The three friends caught up for a few minutes; then Anne regarded Toria with a wondering look. "I'm so glad for you, Toria. We all heard you'd never walk again—obviously the doctors were wrong."

Gabi and Toria looked uneasily at each other; Toria had explained the true purpose of their visit to Fantasy Island to Gabi, and they both wondered if they should let Anne in on it. "Maybe you'd better tell her, Toria," Gabi finally said ruefully.

Anne glanced back and forth between them in confusion. "Tell me what?"

Toria sighed and stared at her feet, wiggling her toes inside the navy flats she'd been wearing all weekend. Anne and Gabi followed her gaze and watched the movements of her toes inside the shoes, before Toria said reluctantly, "Soon I won't be able to do this anymore, Anne. What you and the others heard was true. I was paralyzed from the hips down in that accident, and it's permanent." She lifted her gaze to meet Anne's. "The reason I'm walking and wiggling my toes right now is because Sammie and I came here for a fantasy." She told Anne the entire story then, watching the play of vivid emotion across Anne's face.

Anne's hand drifted toward her mouth as Toria wound up her narrative. "Oh Toria…I can't imagine! You must wish so badly that this could be forever!"

"Mr. Roarke said it isn't possible," Toria told her. "I'm borrowing Samantha's mobility for the weekend—these shoes I'm wearing have it 'stored' inside them, if I have Mr. Roarke's explanation right. Sammie's been in my wheelchair since yesterday morning. But our fantasy ends sometime this evening, and then I'll have to go back to wheeling myself everywhere I want to go."

Anne shook her head slowly. "We all wondered what had really happened," she said. "None of us ever forgot—I still have dreams about the accident, and Mark's family never got over his death. They moved to British Columbia within a month after he was killed."

Toria looked up in surprise. "I never knew that."

"I wish you'd stayed in touch with us, Toria," Anne said earnestly. "It wasn't long before we found out how the accident happened."

"I know now myself," Toria broke in, her expression hardening. "Aaron Weld. As a matter of fact, Anne, that's why I came. Where is he? I want to confront him myself."

A strange expression came over Anne's features and she looked away, fidgeting for a moment before taking a breath and straightening her posture. She turned back then and said quietly, "Toria, Aaron Weld committed suicide the end of that summer."

Gabi gasped; Toria blanched so suddenly and completely that she thought for a moment she might faint. The room tilted slightly and she went numb with shock. Unable to respond, she gaped stupidly at Anne, whose own face had paled a bit.

"Oh my God," Gabi blurted. "Was it because of the accident?"

Anne nodded. "Aaron was driving the car that hit us that night," she explained, her voice soft and a little shaky. "He was on his way home from some party or another. He hadn't been drinking, but the roads were slippery in the rain, and he lost control of the car just as we were coming up to pass him going the other way. He suffered a broken collarbone in the accident, so he didn't get away unscathed. But later on, he discovered that Mark had been killed and Toria paralyzed, and it destroyed him. He kept saying he was the one who should have died in that wreck. Nothing anyone said could change his viewpoint; he always insisted on blaming himself. His guilt just got to be too much for him to bear, and toward the end of August, he swallowed rat poison." Gabi moaned in distress and turned away, and Anne's voice dropped to a whisper. "He left a note…said he couldn't live with himself and what he'd done any longer. He felt responsible and decided it was the only way he could properly atone for it."

Toria stared, reeling, unable to move for the incredible shock. An oppressive silence dropped in the room and hung over the three friends for what seemed like the rest of the afternoon. After a long time she croaked, "I should have…"

"You couldn't have done anything either," Anne told her immediately, sitting on the end of the bed next to her and resting a hand on Toria's shoulder. "Aaron was irrevocably convinced that he was solely to blame and that dying himself was the only way he could make it right. Oh, Toria, you never knew? It was in the newspapers."

Toria gawked at her, still blindsided. "I…I cut myself off from any reminders after the accident. I was…I had so much anger in me. It's been eating at me the way Aaron's guilt ate at him. I seem to remember Sammie told me one day that there was a newspaper article she thought I should see, but I wouldn't have anything to do with it. I was determined to close myself off in my own little world." Her vision wavered and her eyes grew glassy with tears. "What a jerk I was. What a self-pitying, bitter jerk. Aaron paid the ultimate price for what was just a tragic accident all along…" She wilted into sobs then, and Anne and Gabi closed ranks, flanking their friend and hugging her and each other, all of them crying.

It was a catharsis for them; the dam seemed to break then, and they spent the next hour and a half talking earnestly. Eventually Anne cast a passing glance at the bedside clock and then did a double-take. "My gosh, it's past four o'clock already. Toria, why don't we go back to yours and Samantha's bungalow? I'd like to see Sam and catch up with her too."

Toria nodded. "A great idea," she agreed. "Come on, you two. I'm so glad we were able to connect again." She gripped Anne's hand in one of hers and Gabi's in the other. "You two were always the best friends I ever had. I promise, from now on I'll stay in touch with both of you. And we've got to be sure to get together as often as we can, even with you all the way out in Nova Scotia." She playfully stuck her tongue out at Gabi, who rolled her eyes and joined in the laughter.

Samantha looked up in amazement from the book she had been reading when the threesome walked into the bungalow. "Whoa, Toria! What's this, old home week?"

"You could say that," Toria said, eyes sparkling. "Sammie, I've got my two best friends back, and I learned something this afternoon. I think things are gonna be totally different for me once we get back home."

Samantha stared at them. "Wow," she said. "Anne and Gabi, if you two are responsible for this change in my sister, then you have my eternal, undying gratitude." Anne and Gabi both laughed. "So come on, tell me."

Toria, Gabi and Anne summarized the events of that afternoon while Samantha sat bug-eyed, struggling to absorb it all. Once they'd finished explaining, she slowly shook her head. "That's absolutely amazing. It's the saddest thing I've ever heard, and what a waste of a life. Poor Aaron."

"But in a way, Aaron brought me back to the real world," Toria said, "and gave me back my best friends too. I just wish there were some way he could know that."

Samantha smiled. "I think it's enough that you know it, Toria. So hey, do you think we oughta have dinner out and celebrate?"

Toria's face clouded. "I don't think we can…remember what Mr. Roarke said?"

Samantha bit her lip. "Oh, that's right." Anne and Gabi looked at each other.

"Maybe we'd better let you two have some time alone," Anne suggested gently. "Toria told us about your fantasy. Listen…I'm flying out on the same plane as you two tomorrow morning, so we'll be able to catch up some more on the way home." She poked Gabi. "As for you, Mrs. Newlywed, you'd better send us some postcards, since you and Dean plan to bake in the sun for another five or six days."

Gabi grinned. "Eat your heart out." They all laughed, and Anne and Gabi left the bungalow amid many goodbyes and promises to stay in touch.

Two hours later, there was a knock on the door, and Toria looked up from her newly reclaimed wheelchair, from which she had been folding clothes for repacking. "Who do you suppose that is?"

Samantha glanced out the bedroom door and shrugged. "I'll get it. You finish that—you were always better at folding than I was anyway." Toria laughed while Samantha walked briskly through the main room. Figuring it was probably Roarke, she opened the door and then froze. There at the end of the wheelchair ramp sat Darryl Kellett.

Realization hit him at the same instant it did her, and they stared at each other, she in shock and growing fear, he in sheer bewilderment. "What the…Samantha?" he asked after a very charged moment.

Samantha nodded faintly. "I…wasn't expecting…"

"I guess not," Darryl said, still heavily confused, looking her up and down several times as if to assure himself that she really wasn't in a wheelchair.

She floundered, reaching out tentatively, trying to get a physical grip on a very intangible situation. "Darryl, I hope you'll let me explain."

He gave his head a hard shake as if trying to clear it. "What happened to…"

"…the wheelchair?" Samantha finished. "Darryl, truly, I meant to tell you last night, but we got…uh, distracted. My sister is really the one in the wheelchair…she and I had a fantasy, and it just ended a little while ago." She winced and hung her head. "It's amazing how lame the truth can sound. But it _is_ the truth—you can check with Mr. Roarke."

Darryl made a rude noise that brought Samantha's apprehensive gaze up to collide with his. "I don't think I need to bother. You told me all I really needed to know. You and your sister are having some fun at my expense, from the look of things."

"No," Samantha cried, "it's not that way at all!"

From behind her Toria called out, "Sammie, is everything okay?" She appeared in the doorway beside Samantha a moment later, having deftly wheeled herself up the indoor ramp, and now peered at Darryl curiously. "You must be the guy Sammie met this weekend, the stockbroker from Chicago. I'm Sammie's sister, Toria."

Darryl stared now at her, trying to take in this new reality. "Are you faking it the way your sister was?"

Toria glared at him. "No, I happen to be paralyzed. Sammie and I traded places for the weekend, with a lot of help from Mr. Roarke. We just resumed our real roles in life."

Darryl shook his head again. "Geez. Just my lousy luck to find a woman I thought I could really connect with, and it all turns out to be a damn fantasy. What a wasted weekend this has been!" Samantha gasped and burst into tears, whirling away and disappearing inside the bungalow.

"So are you saying you can't connect with a woman unless she's in a wheelchair like you?" Toria demanded, outraged for her sister. "Boy, the more I learn about you, the less I like you. I'm becoming convinced that Sammie's better off without a shallow jerk like you. If you think she has to be in a wheelchair to be worthy of your love, then all I can tell you is that you're missing out on something very special. Not that you care—you can't see the forest for the trees, I'm thinking. Why don't you get lost?" She backed up her chair and slammed the door on him.

Darryl Kellett let his chair roll down the slope of the ramp, trying to make sense out of what Toria and Samantha had said. Samantha had had plenty of opportunities to tell him; why had she continually put it off? He was so busy stewing that he nearly ran into Leslie, who was on her way up the lane toward the Elliott bungalow to collect the shoes Toria had worn for the weekend. "Oh, excuse me, Leslie," he said.

"You look preoccupied," Leslie observed curiously.

He sighed. "Yeah, you could call it that, I guess. Uh, I have a question for you."

She glanced ahead of her, hesitated and said, "I don't want to seem like I'm dodging you, Mr. Kellett, but I need to finish my errand. If you don't mind waiting here for a few minutes, I'll be right back, and I'll see if I can help you."

Darryl shrugged. "Why not. I'm not going anywhere." She smiled apologetically and resumed her walk to the bungalow, this time half jogging in order to complete the errand a little sooner.

She was met at the door by Toria, who smiled at her. "Hi, Leslie. I guess you're here for the shoes."

Leslie nodded. "How was the transition back to the wheelchair?"

"About as smooth as it could be expected to be," Toria replied with a shrug. She turned her chair around and rolled it back down the ramp into the main room, where she lifted a shoe box. Leslie had descended the steps behind her and accepted the box with a smile of thanks. "You know, Sammie and I had intended this weekend to be sort of an exercise in learning about each other. Walking a mile in each other's shoes, if you'll pardon the pun." She and Leslie both grinned. "But I learned something totally unexpected, and poor Sammie fell in love and got her heart broken. I wonder if we ought to stay longer, because when we go back home, she's probably going to throw herself into her work. And she's had little enough rest as it is."

Leslie studied her in surprise. "Fell in love?"

"Some guy in a wheelchair," Toria said, disgusted. "He just left here after finding out I'm actually the one with the wheels. Seems he thought we were trying to pull a fast one on him. Sammie never got a chance to tell him she was using my chair only for the weekend. I told him to get lost, if he thinks Samantha's good enough for him only when she's in a wheelchair." She shook her head.

"I see," said Leslie thoughtfully. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is she okay?"

Samantha appeared in the bedroom doorway, looking worn-out, her eyes red and her cheeks blotchy. She smiled wanly. "Hi, Leslie. I guess I'll be okay in time. It's just that Darryl was the first guy I ever connected with on that level, and it hurts to realize he doesn't want me now that he knows I can walk."

"The guy's just got some growing up to do, that's all," Toria said flatly. She cast her sister a rueful glance. "Fine thing for me to say, when I had some growing up to do myself."

"The difference is, you did your growing up, and he hasn't," Samantha said. "Never mind about it now. I wouldn't have time for a love life anyway. Leslie, it's been a heck of a weekend, and I just want to thank you. Don't let us keep you from anything."

Leslie grinned. "Oh, you're not. I just came over to pick up the shoes, and that's done. You two have a good night." They wished her the same, and she left the bungalow, retracing her steps to where Darryl Kellett still waited in the lane.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked with a half-grin.

She chuckled. "Not at all. I'm just on my way back to the main house, and you can be my escort. So…what was your question?"

Darryl rolled the chair a few feet before replying. "I met someone here this weekend. Beautiful, smart, funny lady. She was in a wheelchair like me…or at least, I thought she was. Then I went over to her bungalow this evening and discovered she actually isn't in a wheelchair at all; supposedly her sister is. They claimed they'd been having a fantasy." He peered skeptically up at Leslie. "What kind of garbage is that?"

"The true kind," Leslie replied amiably, smiling at him. "I presume you're speaking of Samantha and Victoria Elliott." When Darryl nodded, she went on: "Toria was paralyzed in a car accident as a teenager, and Samantha's supported her and taken care of her since then. They came here to exchange places for the weekend and get a little glimpse into each other's lifestyles. My father arranged it for them, with the help of these shoes." She lifted the shoe box to display it at him for a moment.

"You mean…Mr. Roarke granted them a fantasy, and…" Darryl began.

"Exactly," said Leslie. "Samantha lent Toria her ability to walk for these two days. You simply happened to meet her while she was wheelchair-bound."

"She should have told me," Darryl barked out, his anger resurfacing. "I thought she and I had something major in common, and I never fell in love so fast in my life. Now I find out it was all a selfish game. That's a hell of a note to end a weekend on."

Leslie stopped and turned to face him. "Let me get this straight. You fell in love with Samantha because she was in a wheelchair?"

Caught up short, Darryl stared back at her, unable to reply. She interpreted this as assent and sighed deeply. "Mr. Kellett, believe me, that's a bad criterion on which to base your attraction to someone. You yourself said she was smart and funny and beautiful. Are you telling me that's not enough for you? That her being in a wheelchair was the most important thing to you? If that's true, then I feel sorry for you." She fielded his outraged expression and held up a hand. "Before you go popping off, let me give you something to think about. Samantha Elliott gave up her ability to walk for a weekend so that her sister could have one last chance to walk, run, dance, swim, everything she hasn't been able to do for the last fourteen years. That's one of the most unselfish things I've ever known anyone to do for anyone else. In my eyes, she's about the least likely person I know of to play what you called 'selfish games'." She paused, but Darryl was still too startled to reply, so she gave a nod. "Have a good evening, Mr. Kellett. Excuse me, please." With that, she walked away.

Darryl Kellett sat in the lane staring sightlessly into the trees, mind racing, not moving till a jeep came along and forced him to wheel to the roadside. He watched it retreat past him and let his gaze drift off to the Elliott bungalow, still partially visible from his vantage point. Blowing out a deep sigh, he slowly rolled away.


	10. Chapter 10

§ § § -- April 18, 1994

The first car drew up in front of Roarke and Leslie on Monday morning and discharged Samantha and Victoria Elliott; Roarke stepped forward and lifted the wheelchair out of the back, holding it so that Toria could heft herself into it. Once the car pulled away, he smiled at the sisters. "I hope your fantasy was satisfactory," he said questioningly.

"I'll say it was," Toria said with a grin. "I'll admit to wishing it could have lasted for good, but…having that last chance to just hop onto my feet and go…I'll always treasure that gift, Mr. Roarke. If it weren't for Samantha being willing to lend her mobility to me, and you making it possible, I don't know what I might have done. Even if you did engineer that reunion—which is fine, because it got me my friends back."

Roarke laughed. "A mere coincidence, I assure you. But I am very happy to hear that it all turned out for the best. And you, Miss Elliott…" He turned to Samantha. "Were you able to get the rest you so looked forward to?"

Samantha smiled sadly. "Physically, yes; mentally, no. But I'll get over it."

"Are you sure you want to?" asked a voice then, and none other than Darryl Kellett pushed himself forward from around the bend in the lane. He stopped some feet away from the Elliott sisters and looked at Samantha, sheepish, apologetic and hopeful all at once. "I found out last evening that I didn't have all the information I needed before I jumped to conclusions, and Leslie here set me straight. Samantha, I can't tell you how sorry I am that I hurt you and said what I did. Did I do too much damage, or could we start over again?"

Samantha stared at him, her eyes wide and hopeful. "I'm willing to try…but are you really sure you want me, knowing I'm not in a wheelchair?"

"I'm sure," Darryl told her steadily, with a slow smile.

"You better be," Toria threatened him with a grin, "because if you're not, I'm coming after you. Got that?"

Darryl threw back his head and burst out laughing. "I guess I've been duly warned! Message received loud and clear, sergeant. Now how about we get on the plane before it leaves without us?" They all laughed then and said their goodbyes, shaking hands with their hosts and heading across the clearing for the plane dock.

When Kurt Jensen arrived, accompanied by Caitlyn D'Angelo, there was a slightly pensive look on his face. "Is something wrong, Mr. Jensen?" asked Leslie.

"Well, sort of," Kurt said. "I mean, if all my lottery winnings were just a fantasy, what about Jeff McKay? After I helped him out, with his new clothes and enough cash to put a security deposit on an apartment…will he be right back where he started?"

"Not at all," said Roarke warmly. "You showed a great deal of generosity this weekend, Mr. Jensen, and I felt this merited special consideration. Officer McKay will be able to keep the portion of your winnings which you gave him as a gift."

"Super," said Kurt with a relieved grin, withdrawing one hand from his pocket to shake with Roarke. To his surprise, out came a small, colorful piece of stiff paper. "Oh, I forgot I had this! I bought it at Logan Airport right before I boarded my plane." He turned it around and held it up so that Roarke, Leslie and Caitlyn could see it; it was a Mass Megabucks lottery ticket.

"Never say die, I guess," Caitlyn remarked, laughing. She looked at Leslie. "We never really knew each other, but I was one of a crowd that hung out with your friend Frida Olsson in high school. You know what the funny thing is? When I leave here with Kurt, I'll be heading home. I was born in Boston and lived there till I was ten—that's when my dad was sent to Coral Island, and I grew up on the Air Force base there. I'd been considering taking a trip back to Massachusetts, but I never thought it'd happen this way."

Leslie laughed. "It's funny how life turns out sometimes. I wish you and Mr. Jensen both lots of luck." She shook hands with Caitlyn as a young native man approached the little group and handed Roarke a copy of that morning's _Fantasy Island Chronicle_.

"Your paper, Mr. Roarke," he said.

"Thank you," Roarke said, looking somewhat surprised but accepting it anyway. "I wondered why I didn't find it on the porch this morning." He glanced at the various headlines, then paused and looked at one item a little more closely. "Mr. Jensen, you might be interested in this." He handed Jensen the newspaper.

Jensen peered at the item Roarke pointed out, frowned with dawning realization and compared his ticket with the numbers listed on the page. After a long, stunned moment he met Roarke's gaze. "Who needs luck, Mr. Roarke?" he asked, an enormous grin splitting his face in two. "I just won a hundred grand in the Mass Megabucks!"

"Get outta here!" exclaimed Caitlyn, gaping at him.

"It's not exactly two hundred million," Leslie said, amused.

Jensen shrugged. "That's probably just as well. Thanks to you and my fantasy, I know exactly how to handle it now." Laughing once again, Roarke and Leslie wished Jensen and Caitlyn a safe journey and watched them stroll up the plane dock arm in arm.

Then Leslie turned to Roarke and said, "Father, you didn't…"

"I didn't what?" Roarke inquired.

"Have any thing to do with his winning the lottery," she said.

Roarke rolled his eyes. "You are quite correct, Leslie—I didn't," he said. "What gave you the idea that I could possibly control the Massachusetts lottery?"

Leslie shrugged, her eyes twinkling. "Well, stranger things have happened," she said, and Roarke shook his head with exaggerated exasperation, making her laugh.

"Incidentally, Leslie, you spent quite a bit of time with your friends at the luau, trying to help Maureen find a name for her daughter," he observed in a deft change of subject as a jeep pulled up to take them back to the main house. "Tell me, did she ever make a decision?"

"After all this time, yes," Leslie said with a chortle. "She called me last evening to tell me that she and Grady have agreed to name the baby Brianna Marelle Harding."

"A very appealing name," Roarke said. "How did they find it?"

"Well," said Leslie, "Maureen told me this long involved story about how they came up with the middle name—they liked Marie and the rhythm was right, but they wanted something different, so they experimented a little and kind of made up the name 'Marelle'. She went on so long that I had to remind her that she didn't tell me where they got the baby's first name from. And after all the effort we put forth helping her out, the rest of us are going to get a lot of mileage from teasing her on this one."

The jeep pulled onto the Ring Road while Roarke turned in the front passenger seat and gave her a slightly impatient look. "How did it happen?"

Leslie leaned forward, already beginning to dissolve into laughter as she spoke. "She opened a book of baby names that Grady bought in town, closed her eyes and put her finger on one page. And when she opened them again, it was right on top of the name Brianna." Roarke gave her the most disbelieving look she had ever seen and shifted back around to face the front, shaking his head; Leslie fell back in her seat, the sound of her mirth trailing behind the moving vehicle.

**THE END**


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